


Honest Heartbreak

by TroubleIWant



Series: Shelter In Place 2020: Old drafts resurrection [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief allusion to suicidal ideation, Did I mention MISUNDERSTANDINGS, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, References to past underage dubcon, Songfic, u kno my usual vibe I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23205916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleIWant/pseuds/TroubleIWant
Summary: Boyband fake-relationship shenanigans, plus angsty melodrama.ORKate laughs at him. “You’re still gonna be a star. Trust me babe, you’re gonna be huge.”Derek imagines being the headliner on an international tour, selling out the whole arena, walking on red carpets with fans screaming his name, imagines flash-bulbs popping. It’s the dream he’s been living and breathing for five years, and honestly the images are getting worn around the edges. Laura would give him shit for having a second smoke break less than an hour after his last, but Derek guesses she’s not here to bitch about it now.Kate says, “Look, my niece’s boyfriend Scott and his buddy from high school are trying to put something together – drums and guitar. They’re good, they’re hungry, and boy-bands are always hot. What do you say we try bringing them on? With your pretty face all we'd really need is one danceable single to get some radio play. Just let them audition, see what you think.”“Sounds like you’ve got it all lined up,” Derek sneers. He's pretty sure he's making a huge mistake, but what's one more to the pile?
Relationships: Brief Scott/Kira, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mentions of Scott/Allison, Mentions of past Derek/Kate - Relationship
Series: Shelter In Place 2020: Old drafts resurrection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678111
Comments: 83
Kudos: 355





	Honest Heartbreak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whateverrrrwhatever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverrrrwhatever/gifts).



> I'm not exactly a liar about not writing Sterek anymore, because this is actually an old fic that I have resurrected because of a VERY nice comment someone left me recently (whateverrrrwhatever you know who you are) and because quarantine. It features intensely self-indulgent melodrama, an exceedingly fuzzy understanding of how the music industry works, and not a ton of proofreading. Enjoy!
> 
> (Also there are two or three points where you might be like, "this lady's idea of a "happy" ending is DIFFERENT THAN MINE >:( " but trust me, I gotchu fam)

* * *

“I _quit_ ,” Laura howls. 

Derek should have seen it coming, but the words hit him like a slap in the face. “What?”

“I quit this fake ass band. I quit parading up on stage dressed like a dominatrix, I quit singing those dumbass lyrics I didn’t even write, I quit wasting all my time on your idiotic, attention-seeking obsession with being fucking famous!” 

“Laura, come on,” Derek pleads. “Don’t be like this. We can change the outfits, that’s not a big deal. If you wanna get back to writing, then we cut back on touring as much. We’ll…”

“...definitely ensure this band stays small-time,” their manager, Kate, interjects calmly.

Laura turns on her. “Oh, I am so fucking done with your bullshit. It doesn’t matter how much we tour, we’re never going to be the next White Stripes – like, _please_ .” And then to Derek, accusingly: “I feel like I’m being torn in two. You always side with _her_."

Kate holds up a hand and pulls a face that means ‘woah, bitch alert,’ so it’s Derek who, as always, has to mediate. “Laura, Kate’s just trying to help. She knows the industry, and…”

“I don’t even care about the industry anymore, Derek. Okay? I’m done with all this bullshit, our parents were right. If you want to be famous so bad, fine, stick with Kate and do whatever you want. Don’t bother calling, just have a nice life and I’ll catch the show when you come through Chicago.” She slams the door on her way out.

The recording studio after she leaves is very, very quiet. Derek tries to internalize what’s just happened – his band is finished. Not only that, but his sister never wants to see him again. All he’s ever wanted was to be successful enough that he and Laura could enjoy making music without worrying about making rent. And now, all the late night practice sessions and hard work, all those sacrifices…

“It's fine,” Kate says airily, and Derek hates her more than usual. 

“How is it fine?” he snarls.

“Look, Laura’s right, this sibling act wasn’t going anywhere. If she hadn’t pulled the plug, we still would have had to call it quits soon enough.”

“Thanks, I feel so much better.”

Kate laughs at him. “Silly, I just mean Alpha just wasn’t your ticket. You’re still gonna be a star. Trust me babe, you’re gonna be _huge_.”

Their old familiar mantra. Derek sighs, closes his eyes. He imagines being the headliner on an international tour, selling out the whole arena, walking on red carpets with fans screaming his name, imagines flash-bulbs popping. It’s the dream he’s been living and breathing for five years, and honestly the images are getting worn around the edges. He has a sudden, intense desire for a cigarette.

He pulls a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes from his back pocket and Kate follows him out to the alley behind the recording studio. Laura would give him shit for having a second smoke break less than an hour after his last, but Derek guesses she’s not here to bitch about it now.

Kate stands with him in silence until he’s almost down to the filter. Then she says, “Look, my niece’s boyfriend Scott and his buddy from high school are trying to put something together – drums and guitar. They’re good, they’re hungry, and boy-bands are always hot. What do you say we try bringing them on? With your pretty face all we'd really need is one danceable single to get some radio play.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all lined up,” Derek sneers. Kate shrugs, with a little smug smile. Whatever else you could call her, Derek has to admit that she’s a survivor.

“Just let them audition, see what you think.”

“Fine.” Derek lights another smoke off the first. He doesn’t have much hope for these strangers being worth the time, but with his sister gone, it isn’t as if he has a better option. Going back home with Laura and acquiescing to some shitty, humdrum life as a nobody? That isn’t an option at all. 

* * *

Kate’s pair doesn’t exactly impress on first blush. Yes, they know how to handle their instruments, and they’re relatively good-looking – especially the one with the buzz cut – but they have no idea how to sell themselves: Scott, the boyfriend, is in basketball shorts and a raggedy t-shirt, and the other kid’s paired a stained graphic tee with jeans that are not-so-artfully ripped at one knee. They are also blatantly, unprofessionally nervous. It’s probably their first time in New York. Maybe in _any_ big city.

“You didn’t mention that they were still in _high school_ ,” Derek mutters to Kate as they set up. Buzz-cut is gaping at Derek like he’s never seen a professional musician up close before. Derek glares back, and the kid – Stiles – jolts back to an exaggerated display of tuning his guitar.

“You’re just getting old, they’ve both graduated,” she scoffs. The two musicians exchange quiet words, Stiles still fiddling around with his guitar and Scott nervously twirling his drumsticks. Putting off the actual audition, Derek assumes, which doesn’t bode well for anything.

“Alright, let’s go,” Derek snaps at them, arms crossed. Sooner they start, sooner this can be over.

“Okay, yeah,” Stiles says. He goes to the mic Kate set up, long fingers wrapping around it too tightly as he makes a final adjustment. He looks back at Scott to count off a soft, “three, two…”

Scott tumbles into a quick, tight solo – he’s actually _good_ – and then Stiles starts to sing. The second he’s performing, it's as if some internal switch has flipped: the wide-eyed nerves are instantly gone, the fidgeting’s gone, all of it replaced with a consummate performance. His voice is rangy and untrained, but it’s got unmistakable personality, that extra something that makes you want more.

Derek’s a better guitarist – he can tell just by looking that the kid’s never been professionally trained – but his own skill was always making the most complicated chords look easy as he glowered mysteriously from the background. Stiles, on the other hand, has stage presence coming out his pores. The song’s nothing special, a bit repetitive frankly, but the way they perform makes it spellbinding. The kid’s brimming with tightly coiled energy, and Derek can’t imagine anyone looking away. When the last note goes still in the air, Derek lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

“See, they’re not so bad,” Kate smirks. “Think you could work with them?” Derek nods his agreement almost grudgingly; sometimes he wishes she didn’t have such good instincts.

She smiles at the pair, big a toothy grin. “Great job, kids, consider yourself signed!”

“Wait, what, really?” Stiles gawps into the mic. Derek winces.

“Really,” Kate laughs.

Yes!” Stiles yelps. He spins around to high five Scott, who grins dopily back. They look pretty much exactly like a pair of high schoolers who’ve just made Varsity.

Derek sincerely hopes he’s not making a mistake.

* * *

Scratch that, Derek is definitely making a mistake.

Papers have been signed now and there’s no going back, but their first practice together could generously be called a hot mess. Derek, at Kate’s insistence, is taking over lead guitar and vocals. They’re trying to get through an old song from Alpha’s back catalog - Honest Heartbreak - but getting even one decent take of it feels impossible.

Scott and Stiles have been playing together for literally eight years, and they accommodate each other’s idiosyncrasies perfectly. With Derek in the mix, on the other hand, nothing gels. Derek plays exactly on the beat, but Scott instinctively slows down a fraction when Stiles hits a tricky chord progression, leaving Derek’s lead guitar line weirdly out of sync. When Derek corrects them, Scott keep tempo but the song goes wooden, grinding joylessly along like it’s coming out of a machine. Not to mention Stiles winds up dropping notes left and right. On top of all that - as if it wasn’t enough on it’s own - singing Laura’s old part hurts Derek’s ears as well as his heart. Vocals are _not_ his strong suit, and he knows it. 

“Stop,” Derek interrupts wearily, for the ninth time. Scott looks surprised, like he hadn’t heard how bad they sounded, while Stiles looks actively crushed. Derek bites back the impulse to tell him it’s not his fault. Nobody here needs hand holding, they’re all adults. “Let’s take five.”

Stiles skulks behind the drum set and ducks his head to whisper nervously to Scott. Derek goes into the corner where Kate is observing. “This is shit,” he hisses.

“It’s your first practice,” she says, laying a placating hand on his back. He shrugs out from under it, glaring. She meets his eyes with equal intensity. “Look, Alpha is dead. It’s this or nothing, Sweetie. So suck it up.”

“Fine,” Derek says, crossing his arms. “But how we’re doing it now is unworkable. What about getting Stiles out front? He was singing before, he has a good voice.”

“Seriously?” Kate’s smirk falters into genuine irritation. “Der-bear, _you’re_ supposed to be the star." 

“Come on, you’ve got to hear how bad this sounds. Laura led Alpha because I’m a mediocre singer at best, which you _know_. I can still play the lead line, have Stiles do the bass and singing. Let’s just try it.”

Kate doesn’t say ‘fine, your funeral,” but she conveys the same sentiment pretty well with her shrug.

“Hey, Stiles,” Derek says, “Think you can switch mics? I want you to try singing.” 

“What?” Stiles squeaks. “Me?”

Derek catching himself glaring again. Why is everyone acting like it’s such a bizarre request? “You do it when you and Scott play, don’t you? And I was the bassist for Alpha, so I’m not going to get my panties in a twist about not being the center of attention. Do you think you can handle this?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says quickly, licking his lips nervously. “Totally.” 

They take a break while Stiles goes over the vocals; getting the lyrics and melody down is trickier than people think, even if you know the song, and Stiles was clearly focused on the bass line more than Derek’s voice during their ill-fated practice. Sooner than Derek expected, though, Stiles says he’s good and they get into their new formation.

“Three, two…” Stiles says nervously, and then starts to sing in an entirely different attitude. “Yeah, I can see you’ll break me - but go ahead and take me. I’m awake, love is fake, give me honest heartbreak…”

The energy of this arrangement is different. Derek instantly feels that easy, rippling spark pulsing through the song, elevating each of their parts; it’s the sound of a band clicking.

Part of the improvement is the way Derek's able to focus on the melody, helping Scott keep the tempo powering forward with strong chords. But more than that it’s Stiles; his whole body is given over to the song, rocking back and then curving in to kiss the mic, fist pumping at the chorus like he’s in front of a crowd even though they’re just in the old studio with no one watching but Kate. He sings with fresh inflection, improvising a bit, playing with the steady tempo Derek and Scott are laying out. His playing is still sloppy, even more so when he’s singing, but it doesn’t ruin the effect. 

Derek would have sworn he was sick to death of the entire Alpha backlist, but the way Stiles does it he finds himself enjoying the song again, like he’s hearing it anew after all this time. 

Kate claps when they finish, slow and barely on the right side of mocking. “Nice,” she says. Stiles turns around with a wonder-struck half-smile at Derek, then a full on grin for Scott. “I guess we can work with this. So, what are you guys gonna call yourselves?” she asks. 

“Wolf Pack,” Scott says with conviction. 

Derek startles himself with a burst of laughter. It’s a little hokey, but it’s fun, too. He thinks it just might work for them. Without really meaning to, he envisions the magazine covers, rolls the sound around in his mouth. _How do I feel about Wolf Pack winning a grammy? Well, it was always clear to me that we had something great..._

Stiles catches Derek after the practice, grabbing his arm just outside the door and then dropping it with a nervous wince, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch. “Hey, I just wanted to – Are you really sure I should be the lead singer? When we auditioned, Kate said…”

“Forget what she told you, I’m sure,” Derek says, more snappish than he intended. He’s not sure when growling at people became his default response. “Honestly,” he tries again, managing to sound like less of an asshole. “You’ve got great stage presence.”

“Wow. Thank you. I mean, really, thank you for this opportunity,“ Stiles blabbers. Derek scowls. It’s not like he’s trying to do Stiles a favor; he has the makings of a great lead, age be damned. It’s a professional call. The kid’s still talking, though: “I mean, Scott and I did some videos, and we got hits, sometimes, but like… you know. A _manager_! And it’s so amazing to work with you. Back in high school I listened to your music all the time, like with Alpha? That’s the only reason I got the vocals down so quick. I own all your CDs, I went to your show twice, both times you came to the West Coast. I was such a fan.”

“Past tense?” Derek jokes tightly. His stomach has clenched up at the admission. The last person he wants to tour with is a star-struck kid cherishing his imaginary teen idol version of Derek, a cipher carved out of scripted interviews and music videos. All of that had been born out of Kate’s market-driven advice, not Derek himself.

“Oh!” Stiles squawks, “No, I mean, I totally still love your music! But like, now that I know you personally it’s weird to be a _fan_. We’re band-mates, right?.” He gives Derek a thousand-watt smile with an edge of conspiratorial chumminess that looks… genuine. Not like he wants an idol, like he wants a friend.

Derek smiles back, some of his resistance to the kid. If Stiles can put aside whatever Derek meant to him before this, Derek can set aside his frustrations about working with strangers instead of Laura and meet him halfway. Stiles and Scott can’t replace his sister, but he’s starting to see how gaining Wolf Pack might end up being a decent exchange for torching his last family tie. This new band might, finally, be his big break.

* * *

That Friday, Kate invites them over to Derek’s loft for celebratory drinks, cheekily brushing aside Scott’s protestations that he and Stiles are only 19. She leaves early, though, phone to her ear, working some angle for her newly formed trio. Not so long after that, Scott excuses himself. He’s tipsy, and he thanks Derek very profusely for having them over. It’s just that he needs to call Allison, he says, eyes lighting up. His girlfriend, he explains, they have a nightly Skype date, yeah, every night, just to catch up. He’s obviously besotted, and Derek does his best to believe that the relationship will last. Who knows, right? Maybe it’s just him that always seems to burn all his bridges each time he goes on tour.

“Mind if I stick around for a bit?” Stiles asks after the door shuts, his voice casual and his hands fidgeting. “Don’t really know anyone in New York.”

“Sure,” Derek says with a smile. “Honestly, I don’t either.”

They fall into companionable silence. Derek stays on the couch sipping the rest of his whiskey while Stiles gets up and putters about the apartment with his glass, examining things in a way that seems curious, but not invasive. There’s not much to invade, honestly – Derek’s been on tour so often he never bothered to make this place into much more than a crash pad.

“Can I?” Stiles asks, gesturing at the acoustic guitar propped up in the corner.

“Go ahead,” Derek encourages, and Stiles sets his glass down to pick up the old guitar. It’s funny, Derek hasn’t used it much lately. God, ‘lately’ – he hasn’t played for fun in _years_.

Stiles sits next to Derek and sets the instrument on his lap, almost reverently. Derek watches as he strums a couple chords and adjusts the tuning, the corded muscles in his arms sliding under pale, freckled skin. A couple glasses of whiskey usually don’t do much for Derek, but he hadn't eaten earlier and he's feeling distinctly buzzed. Stiles’ long fingers skate up and down the neck, testing the adjustments he made. Derek tears his eyes away, crushing down a burgeoning thought before he quite has the chance to think it.

Satisfied with the tuning, Stiles picks out a few chords and then turns them into a song Derek doesn’t recognize. He’s not hitting the fingerings cleanly, especially on the transitions which are farther apart. It’s nice to listen to here in Derek’s loft, but it wouldn’t translate well to a recording, or an arena.

“Here,” Derek says, reaching out to correct Stiles’ grip, nudging his knuckles up away from the frets. “You’ll have an easier time if you’re more disciplined about how you hold it.”

“Eh, I’m just not cut out to be that good,” Stiles says, dismissive.

“That’s not true, you’ve got great hands for playing. You’ve just got some bad habits,” Derek says. They’re sitting close to each other now, his fingers still resting on Stiles’. He drops his hand just before it would seem overly intimate. “Listen, I’m happy to give you some pointers. Maybe after practice on Monday?”

“Oh, sure,” Stiles says, a small smile growing wider as he meets Derek’s eyes. “I’d like that.”

* * *

“So, kids, do you love me or do you love me?” 

Derek grins. These days it’s easy to remember why he’s grateful for Kate, for her scrappy tenacity and her industry connections. He, Stiles and Scott have been practicing enough that they’re starting to sound like a real band, using the songs Stiles and Scott wrote for themselves back when they were trying to make it by putting up youtube covers and playing dive bars. Derek’s antsy to get out in front of a live crowd now, see how it goes. Stiles still tends to trip up on particularly complicated guitar sections, but Derek's suggestion of pointers has led to them having what amounts to real guitar lessons most days after practice. Derek’s even been thinking up ways to make the bass lines easier without costing too much in sound quality.

“So, who here knows the name Vernon Boyd?” their manager purrs. “Oh, that’s right, just me. But I bet you know the people he’s written for: I’m talking Halsey, the Chainsmokers, he’s worked with BTS. He’s a hit-maker, guys, and guess who’s freshman album he just agreed to collaborate on?”

“Oh shit, are you serious?” Scott squawks. 

“You bet your ass I am.” She waves a sheaf of paper. “He wants you guys to try this one out. His producer Erica’s gonna do all the mixing, too. It’s edgy, great sing-along chorus… I think it might be our single. You guys are going to start working on it today. Sooner we have some real songs, sooner I can get you some gigs.”

“I mean, but we’ve already got the songs Scott and I wrote,” Stiles offers, practically bouncing on his toes. “It’s not super complicated stuff, but I think it’s catchy. Maybe we could use those, too? Or show them to Mr. Boyd, or Ms. uh, Ms. Erica, and see if they could rework some of ‘em?”

Kate smiles, pityingly. “Maybe, yeah,” she says, the way you’d put off a kid asking for a pony. Derek’s irritated at the tone, but as always she has a point. If they have someone like Boyd willing to work with them, it would be irresponsible not to take full advantage of it.

“Also, we’re going to need a real lead guitarist. Stiles, I love you, I honestly do – but you’re not arena caliber. Especially when you’re trying to sing and play at the same time.” She softens the comments, a bit, by tacking on a sticky-sweet smile. “So, Derek’s back on bass and we’ll find a good fit for the lead. Okay?”

“Oh, uh, that’s cool,” Stiles agrees, his smile wide and tight. “Sure.” 

He’s faking it; Derek knows Stiles well enough to tell, with all the time they’ve spent together on lessons. His heart twinges. Maybe spending so much one-on-one time wasn’t a great idea. The silver lining of losing Laura was not having to care anymore, the last thing he needs is some tender-hearted kid to watch out for. But....

“He signed up to play guitar, Kate,” Derek says, before he’s entirely sure why he’s arguing. “Bringing on a new guitarist will be a hassle. We’re all still working on our sound, anyways, and it’ll take some time to get those songs written, won’t it? We’re not going to be headlining Cow Palace tomorrow.”

“Maybe, but you’re not exactly getting younger,” Kate says. “Look, Alpha was just big enough that your new project is worth a blog post, but only for a little while. So let’s strike while the iron’s hot, okay? We need someone who can play the songs however Boyd wants them – right when we get them - and not suck.”

Derek grits his teeth, humiliated on Stiles’ behalf at her blunt words. He ends up shrugging his acquiescence regardless. As usual, she isn’t wrong. He wishes they could take the time to get Stiles where he needs to be to play live, but self actualization isn’t the goal here, selling tickets is. Kate’s their manager, and it’s her job to make the hard calls. 

He doesn’t let himself look back and see Stiles’ reaction. The kid needs to understand it isn’t personal, it’s about how they’ll have the best chance to make it big. They’re all in it to hit the big time, and they should all be willing to do what they need to. God knows Derek is.

* * *

The next day they’ve got three guitarists lined up to audition, all with good references: Matt, Isaac and Jackson, Kate lists off. After listening to the three, the band rejects Matt out of hand, but wind up split between Isaac and Jackson – Stiles and Scott like Isaac, Derek and Kate prefer Jackson.

“Look,” Kate snaps, cutting through the argument about who had the better riffs. “Isaac is the floppy-haired sweetheart type, and we’ve already got that in Scott. Derek’s the sexy bad boy, Stiles is the hottie next door, and Jackson rounds us out with the aloof prep vibe. Okay?” 

“Shouldn’t it be about the sound, though?” Scott hazards, wincing.

“You guys are going to sound amazing either way,” Kate assures him. “But the look is what’s going to get you on magazine covers.” 

Scott and Stiles exchange wide eyed glances, each of them imagining seeing themselves in print. Vice? Rolling Stone? Derek knows the feeling. When Kate says it, she makes it sound inevitable. Scott breaks first, laughing self-deprecatingly. “Sweetheart type, huh? I guess you’re the boss.” 

“Lucky for you,” Kate confirms with a toothy smile.

* * *

It’s Monday, only 45 minutes after their usual practice ended, and Derek’s already on his second smoke break, leaving Stiles to practice on his own again. Jackson’s undeniably good, but what a fucking _pill_. He knows exactly how talented he is, and he isn’t about to let any of them forget it. Derek had barely resisted getting into a screaming match with him about amp settings, of all things. If it's this bad already... Derek sucks in a deep breath of smoke. He can’t imagine living on a bus with the guy for more than a week and both of them coming out alive.

Jackson and Scott had left right after the session, eager to get out of the tense atmosphere. Only Stiles had stuck around to grin at Derek – big and fake – and say that they might as well stop bothering with lessons since he wasn’t, like, actually gonna play anymore. Derek had told him he was still happy to do it, if Stiles wanted, and in the end they had come to the loft as usual with only that much convincing. In fact, Derek’s not exactly sure what he would have said if Stiles had pushed back. He doesn't know himself why he wants to keep going. It’s just nice to have something in his life besides the band, and it’s good to spend time with Stiles – fun and easy.

Maybe that’s why the lessons have become so important to him; easy is exactly what Derek needs. Wolf Pack’s got a timeline, now, thanks to Kate’s hard work. They’ll have three songs by the end of next week, and their first local gig is lined up for two weeks after that. Plan is to fill out the set with Alpha back-catalogue and a cover, for now. Kate’s estimating they should have an EP in three months, and then it’s touring again. Derek can feel the nerves building under his skin, a kind the cigarettes are barely touching. He startles badly when Stiles appears on the fire escape beside him, and he covers it with a glare.

“Those are really bad for you,” Stiles says, not quite keeping the judgment out of his tone.

“Oh my God, you think?” Derek asks, sarcasm dripping. “I had no idea.” He’s meaner than he wants to be, again. Laura used to hassle him to quit all the time, but now that she’s abandoned him, he can have a hit of nicotine whenever he wants. It’s a perk of having nobody in his life that actually gives a shit.

“So, why do you still do it?” Stiles insists.

“It’s not like I haven’t tried to quit,” Derek admits, frustration leaking into his voice. “I used to try every other week – ‘I swear _this_ is the last pack I’ll buy,’ you know? But something would always come up, and I’d just want to have a smoke and relax… it’s never the right time, I guess.” He looks down at the tiny thing in his hand, sneers at his own weakness.

“Gimme,” Stiles says.

Derek balks, pulling the cigarette away. “You just said it’s a terrible habit! No way I’m letting _you_ get started.”

“Oh, but it’s fine if you do it,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “My dad was a smoker for a while after my mom died, trust me when I say it has no appeal as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want the lit one, hand over the pack.”

Derek does, and Stiles ferrets it away into some inner pocket in his jacket. “You know I can just buy another,” Derek points out.

“I know. So you get the same deal as my dad: if you come to me and ask when you want a cigarette, you get one. I promise not to withhold ‘em, and you promise not to go get a secret supply to chain-smoke when I’m not looking. And I’ll help you taper off. I know we don’t live together, but honestly between practice and lessons we might as well. So, deal?”

Stiles is looking at him earnestly, nothing but honesty in his big amber eyes. Apparently there _is_ someone in Derek’s life who gives a shit. Which is surprising, but mostly in a nice way. A slightly terrifying nice way. Scratch that, it’s fully terrifying under a thin veneer of nice. This new band was a last ditch effort to make something of his career, he’s just with Stiles and Scott to make it big. This band was never supposed to entail all the complications of caring. But with Stiles smiling at him, offering help... 

“Deal,” Derek agrees softly. He feels a little like he's had a long hug, and a little like someone just cocked a gun pointed at his heart.

* * *

Practice starts eating more and more of their lives, with their first performance breathing down their necks, but Stiles still makes time for lessons. Even when they’re not doing that he often swings by the loft and hangs out a bit. It doesn’t mean much, Derek knows that; the only person in NYC that Stiles knows is Scott, and he’s as good as connected at the hip with Allison despite the distance. There’s not too much for Stiles to do except hang with Derek. For his part, Derek can’t remember what he used to do with time before Stiles.

“Want me to put some music on?” Stiles calls. Derek grunts assent.

Stiles likes obnoxiously twee indie pop - Rilo Kiley, The Decemberists, Modest Mouse, The Mountain Goats. Who even names these bands, Derek wants to ask. Today’s choice is barely listenable, full of arrhythmic jolts in the tempo and five syllable words crammed into too few beats.

Derek pulls a face. “Do you really need to illustrate your hipster cred by listening to this stuff? I assume that’s what you’re trying to do, anyways. Nobody would listen to this for fun.”

“Oh, I should put on some of your boring techno crap?” Stiles teases, rising to the snark.

“It’s electronica,” Derek corrects him, purposefully snooty, trying not to laugh at Stiles’ disgusted expression.

“I don’t get what you see in those bands at all. It’s not even real instruments, it’s all soulless machines.”

“It’s not, though,” Derek argues. “Sure they use machines, but so what? The output can be meaningful despite that. The artist is still expressing themselves no matter how the sounds get made. Hell, it’s more personal, because it doesn’t have to be a compromise between five band members and eight producers, and it’s not limited to people who can play instruments or were born with great voices. All you need is a keyboard and a mixing program, and you can find a way to make something that sounds how you imagined it. There’s plenty of emotion and depth to it, even if it isn’t some guy in square glasses over-enunciating his pseudo-poetic lyrics.” Derek catches himself and shrugs, awkward. He leans over his coffee table, pretends to focus on the Fender coffee table book Kate had gifted him when he moved in. He hadn’t meant to say that much, and he doesn’t want to see Stiles laughing at him.

Stiles isn’t mocking, though, when he sits down right beside Derek and knocks their shoulders together. “That’s what I like about my stuff, too, you know. That it’s meaningful? Everyone likes something you can dance to, me included, but… I’m not being pretentious when I say like the weird stuff best. I like that they can say exactly what they want to, just straight out. I do think it’s like poetry. I like that the songs can be funny, and that it doesn’t have to stick to the chorus-verse-bridge-chorus cage of top forty stuff.”

“Stop, you’ll make me try listening to Pavement on purpose, and then I’ll feel dirty,” Derek says wryly. He needs to break the moment before he does something crazy like touch Stiles’ hip where his plaid overshirt has fallen aside and his tee-shirt is rucked up to expose a sliver of bare skin.

Stiles huffs out a little laugh at Derek’s joke. “Yeah, yeah. Hey, do you think… is it stupid that I always kinda wanted to do the indie-alt, too? Singer-songwriter stuff, or whatever. Make up my own lyrics and melodies, play songs that... ah, I know it’s a pipe dream. You’ve seen me play, I’m not Andrew Bird. It’s hard enough to make a living playing the popular stuff.” He laughs at himself this time, deprecatingly.

Derek hates that he can’t really disagree – Stiles is better now, but not enough to make a solo career on his playing. Everyone knows that it’s nearly impossible to make a living in the industry at all, much less as a niche act. The only way that works is if you starve for the entirety of your twenties, win the viral video lottery… or if you’re already known, a big star from something else so that the media outlets stand up and take notice no matter what you follow it up with.

If Wolf Pack takes off, Stiles will have all the opportunities in the world to play whatever kind of music he wants on the side. He’d have enough visibility for folks to give him a first listen, and once they do that they’ll realize that his music is amazing. Derek knows that whatever weird arrangements Stiles comes up with would be. Oddly enough, Derek wants Stiles to have that, someday. Even if it would break up the band for him to go solo. Something like that would be years out, anyways, if it did happen. Just… He had almost forgotten after all this time that the point was making music you loved. It's nice to be reminded. 

Derek keeps the thought to himself, though. “Once Kate lets us talk with Boyd,” Derek says, “I promise to ask if we can have at least one b-side where you get to rhyme ‘antediluvian’ and ‘whovian,’ okay?” He cocks a knowing eyebrow and Stiles rewards him with an inelegant snort. Derek smiles. “Hey, it’s almost seven. You want to stay for dinner?”

“Oh, shit, what? How is it that late?” Stiles yelps, scrubbing a hand over his buzzed hair. “I promised I’d do dinner with Scott.”

Derek forces his untoward disappointment aside. “Ah, right. Get going, I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”

“For sure. And… thanks.” Stiles smiles at Derek, almost shy, and Derek feels for a moment that he isn’t – or doesn’t have to be – the person he’s been; the snappish perfectionist who’s alienated everyone who ever cared for him in his single-minded pursuit of fame.

Even after Stiles is gone, that different identity seems within reach. He could actually have both, couldn’t he? A functional personal life and the fame he’s always craved? If he can just hit the big time with Wolf Pack, everything else will fall into place.

* * *

Derek gets to the studio early the next day, but Stiles isn’t there. He kills some time messing around on his phone, and finds himself looking at old pictures of Alpha, him and Laura on tour. It already feels like a lifetime ago. He remembers what she’d said to him when she left, about not bothering to call, but he’s playing with the idea of trying anyways. What’s the worst that could happen? He’s cooled down over the last six months, maybe she has too.

Kate’s high heels tap-tap-tap right up beside him, her presence a wave of cold water over his sunny mood.

“Hi,” he says flatly. Scott’s the only other member who ever shows up early. Kate usually rolls in fifteen, twenty late. She has plenty of other up-and-comers to tend to, as she’s happy to remind them.

“Well, hello to you, too,” she says at his stormy expression. “How’s my favorite star doing? I hear you’re still putting in those long hours with Stiles. He good enough for the big time yet?”

Derek bristles at the knowing smirk in her voice. “He’s getting there. Anyways, that’s not the point. He just wants to get better, it’s not for the band.”

“I bet it isn’t,” Kate says, something sharp and predatory in her expression. Derek turns away, towards the door; he’d wants to start warming up while they wait for the rest of the band, not talk with her about Stiles.

She doesn’t follow, though. “Hey, Derek,” she says.

“What?”

“You know what kills a band faster than family drama?” He looks back at her sharply. The question was asked like it was rhetorical, but Derek doesn’t know the answer. “Relationship drama,” Kate purrs through a benign smile. 

“Wait, what? Are you saying… seriously? Me and Stiles?” Derek scoffs. “We’re not like that.”

“Of course!” Kate exclaims. “Of course you aren’t, baby. I’m just saying, keep it that way. I can only do damage control on so many of your little implosions, you know. Finding a new vocalist is harder than finding some other groupie to suck your dick, ‘kay?” She smiles at him once more as she walks past him and, with a little flick of her wrist, pops the door open.

Derek shoulders around her on the stairs. She’s crazy, of course, or projecting. Stiles isn’t coming to the lessons as an excuse for flirtation, and Derek not tutoring him as an excuse to get him into bed. He doesn’t want anything more than friendship, wouldn’t want more even if more was on offer, which it isn’t. Derek might be an antisocial loner, but he’s not a monster or an idiot, and he’ll never do something to threaten their band. Not after what happened with Laura. He’d done his best to be reasonable and balance their needs, and look how that turned out. Look how thoroughly he’d torched his relationship with his best and oldest confidant, look at the sneer on her face when she’d left him high and dry.

He shoves his phone back in his pocket. His parents have basically disowned him, Laura hates his guts, all his old friends stopped calling after too many ignored messages. The only thing he can do is not make the same mistakes this time around. 

* * *

“So this next one’s my favorite,” Stiles lies to the crowd. His skin gleams under the hot stage lights, sweat-slick from the exertion of their first show. It’s just an hour set at a divey New York bar, hardly even advertised, but Stiles had given the performance his all. The crowd is eating out of the palm of his hand, and at his teasing promise scattered shouts and cat-calls of approval ripple through the venue. Stiles smiles, shooting a microsecond “told you so” glance back at Jackson, who’d told him before they went on stage to _talk less, God, nobody likes your banter_. “I think you’ll all really enjoy it,” he continues smugly. “It’s a cover, and I gotta warn you… it’s a bit of a departure from our other stuff.”

And is it ever. They’ve practiced this encore, obviously, but as Stiles takes a deep breath and Scott starts up the backbeat, Derek realizes that [the song’s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWNaR-rxAic) going to be a different ballgame live. 

“I threw a wish in the well, don't ask me, I'll never tell. I looked to you as it fell, and now you're in my way.” The crowd bursts into laughter and cheers as they clue into what he’s singing. Stiles grins in response, batting his eyes just shy of sarcastically, grooving into lascivious hip shimmies, playing the contrast between their alt-punk style and the pop song for all it’s worth.

Derek smiles as he settles into his own part. All the attention on them feels amazing, takes him out of himself. The crowd in front of them is mostly in shadow with the lights pointed directly at the stage, but they're visible as flashes of disconnected limbs, body parts catching the light in quicksilver flashes of movement. He loves this part.

They hit the chorus with everyone shout-singing a request to be called, maybe, and Stiles bounces to the beat, pointing one hand out towards the middle of the crowd like he’s singing specifically to one person, but reaching all of them. They shriek with glee when he doesn’t switch the genders at the end of the chorus. Derek knows he’s staring, but it always blows his mind how perfectly Stiles performs, how different it is when he gives himself over to the music. Even surface-shined pop like this is transfigured into something beautiful. 

And it’s at that moment that Stiles turns back to look at Derek, their eyes meeting right as he sings, “before you came into my life, I missed you so bad, and you should know that. I missed you so, so bad,” and it feels as if the line is directed at him, that Stiles means it. It takes Derek’s breath away until he catches the questioning quirk of Stiles’ eyebrow.

Derek realizes what’s really happened – he’s just played the same chord twice, a stupid mistake that probably only Stiles or Jackson would notice, but still something he’s not done for years. He can feel himself flush, turns his attention completely back to his playing. 

Stiles is exactly the type of consummate performer that Derek had hoped he could be, good enough to turn even Derek’s head. The song choice was his, too, inspired by his and Scott’s old youtubing. Clearly it was a stroke of genius. A first show like this one will thrill Kate, and when she’s happy they’re all happy. 

The only problem is, Derek’s starting to wonder if his admiration for Stiles the performer is only that. There’s something changing the way he thinks of Stiles the person, something shifting without his giving it permission. That hip shimmy, for example, is going to be hard to purge from his memory.

Derek plays the rest of the song without mishap, keeping his eyes to himself, and they exit to loud applause and hooting. In the cramped backstage area, Derek forces himself to relax; he always gets tense when he performs these days. Playing a show is his favorite high, but unlike his bandmates Derek’s been through all this before. Novelty isn’t enough to stop the worries from creeping in, not even five minutes after they finish. Derek knows the score. Local bars are one thing, a good enough way to make some extra cash and get a bit of buzz while they’re recording the EP. But only a real tour will get them the traction they need. As much as he hates the grind of it, he almost wishes they could be on the road already, starting to rack up reviews and cred. 

Scott barely spares the time for high-fiving everyone before he’s shrugging on his jacket and out the door to go say ‘hi’ to Allison via Skype. Probably he needs to apologize for something new, a forgotten event or neglected package. From what Derek can tell, the relationship is on the rocks now that Scott’s busier with the band. When they start touring, it’ll be worse. Derek feels a twinge of guilt for his eagerness to start that nightmare even knowing what it'll do to the others, but he also knows it will get them album sales, profits from merch, write-ups on all the right sites. They need all of that if they’re ever gonna be famous.

He hopes that Scott and Allison make it work despite the extra stress, but if they don’t - well, the kid knew what he was getting into when he signed on. Didn’t he? Derek tries not to think too hard about the regrets he still carries from his own first attempts at breaking into the business.

“Hey, I want a cigarette.” Derek is mostly used to asking, but some days it still feels like begging in a way that gets his hackles up. He just needs something to take the edge off before he starts helping with the teardown. 

Stiles turns to him, all infuriating patience and calm. “Why?”

“It’s my _first_ today,” Derek growls. 

“We just got off stage!” Stiles counters. “Jesus, I’m still so high on adrenaline my teeth are chattering. I mean, I thought we did good. At least okay?” He trails off, wincing a little.

“No, fuck, it’s not that. We did great, it was great. Just… come on. I’m stressed out.”

Stiles frowns. “You know smoking isn’t going to fix that, right? How about this, try talking to me about it, okay? Five minutes. Talk to me for five minutes, and if you still need a cigarette you’ve got one.” Stiles raises his eyebrows, challenging, and makes a show of starting a timer on his phone.

Derek huffs out a breath, and manages to just sit still for about fifteen seconds, perched on an amp next to Stiles. He might spend all of it fantasizing about the hot taste of smoke in his mouth, but he’s not begging, at least. 

“So,” Stiles prompts, “talk. We _killed_ it out there. Why are you stressed?”

“I don’t know, it’s nothing. I’m just wound up.” Derek realizes he’s fidgeting, picking at a rough patch on his jeans, and forces his fingers to still.

“Come on, really.”

“OK. I’m stressed about the tour coming up, because I kind of hate traveling. And what if we’re not ready? And we’re just playing Boyd’s cookie cutter hits, and he’s great and all but it’s not meaningful to any of us in a personal way and… I don’t know. I don’t know how you and Scott are going to handle being on the road and I’m stressed. There.”

Stiles smiles. “You don’t need to worry about me. Shit, I’m still just blown away I get to be here.”

Derek squirms. Hasn’t it been five minutes already? “It’s what went wrong with Alpha,” he admits. “Laura wanted to write, to create music she loved… but it started to be all about touring, about the _act,_ the outfits and the lights and all the whatever, rather than the music. It tore us apart. I can’t let that happen again. This band making it big is everything to me.”

“Same here,” Stiles says softly. “I’m not planning to give up that easy.” Derek meets his eyes and feels some of the tension in his shoulders melt away. For a moment they just stay like that, eyes locked. They’re interrupted by an electronic trill. 

“What do you know, your time is up,” Stiles says, checking his screen. “Still need a cancer stick?”

“I - No,” Derek says, surprised at the answer. Want one, sure, but he doesn’t feel that same sharp need.

Stiles grins. “Here,” he says, thrusting a piece of nicorette gum at Derek. “You’re going to regret that answer in about ten minutes, but try this before asking again, okay?”

Derek takes it with a rueful smile. When did Stiles start to know him so well? “Thanks.”

“What are friends for?” Stiles says with a shrug, kicking his feet like a nervous kid on a first date. He’s still gangly and twitchy when he isn’t performing, but now Derek can see what’s behind that, the confidence that’s always waiting under his skin. It’s not like he’s a different person up there on stage, after all. Stiles is settling into himself in a way that lets you notice even offstage how good looking he is, without the exaggerated deflections and flailing to distract you. It’s only a matter of time before Kate’s all important reviewers stand up and take notice the way Derek already has and… and…

 _We’re not like that_ , Derek reminds himself.

* * *

The Pitchfork green-room is nice for a green-room, but that’s not saying much. Just as Derek had predicted, their shows around New York are getting great word of mouth thanks to Stiles, especially with his cannily chosen cover encores. Now that their EP is finally released and they’re starting to line up tour dates, that word of mouth is good for something. Kate must be doing something right, because getting an interview with Pitchfork - a video interview no less - is pretty exciting for a band just starting out like they are. Scott and Stiles are all nerves, giggling at the M&Ms they’d asked for, as if getting a bit of free candy that probably cost three bucks total somehow makes them Led Zeppelin. 

Kate slouches against the wall near the door, unimpressed at their chattering on about folks back in Beacon Hills wetting their pants in jealousy. “Don’t get too excited, boys. This is the opportunity to compete, not the gold medal. You guys need to do _something_ different to push this over the edge. No buzz means no new fans, means no ticket sales, means we don’t move the needle on profit.” She glances up at them, pointed, and returns to skimming something on her phone, thumb flicking compulsively.

Derek bites first. “Okay fine, something like what?”

Kate turns her phone towards them; it’s a gossip blog with a photo of Derek staring at Stiles, who’s looking back at him with a mischievous smile. It must have been taken at some show or other. _Passion in the Pack!?_ The big red headline screams, the leading phrase its own answer. 

Derek recoils, looks away from how the angle and the canny timing of the shot combine to make him look brazenly lovesick when he isn’t, it isn’t at all like that between him and Stiles. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“You,” Kate says. “Making heart eyes at our little firecracker lead. I think you should play this up a little, you know? Sit a little too close, slip in some comments about hanging out alone. That kind of thing. It’ll be a dog-whistle for people who are into that stuff, and trust me when I say there are more of them than you’d think.”

Stiles laughs nervously. “Okay, but that’s not, you know, actually band stuff? That’s personal. _Would_ be personal if… I mean, Derek and I-” he breaks off to laugh again. “C’mon, it’s gossip and if we lean into it they’d just be talking about us, not our music.”

“Same thing,” Kate dismisses.

“This is crazy, gay rumors torch careers they don’t launch them.” Derek is furious at her breezy suggestions. He’s never even broached coming out as bi with her, too sure she’d tell him to stuff it, and now she wants him to act as if he’s in love with a guy? She’s the one telling him off for being overly friendly to Stiles, and now she wants them to fake a relationship for a bit of buzz? “I’m not risking our careers with a stunt like this.”

“What careers?” Kate asks kindly, an edge of something cruel lurking underneath. “No really, what careers? You don’t have anything, right now. There are a million yous waiting in the wings. A million pretty boys with decent beats begging for those tween dollars. We need a reason for fans to pay attention to you, specifically, an angle for the media to work with when they wanna write a fluff piece. And that’s all this is, an angle! I’m not saying come out as a couple of fairies. You’re asked outright you deny the shit out of it. _Obviously_ . But give the fan-girls something to work with, in the meantime. Alright? Stiles, it's the way _you_ sing those stupid covers that started this whole rumor. I’m just asking you to fan the flames.” 

“Would it, uh, really help the band?” Stiles asks, fussing with his hair. Derek knows he’d had the buzzcut since he was a kid and he’d shaved it in solidarity with his mom’s chemo treatments, but Kate’s had him grow it out. 

“God knows why, but yeah,” Jackson says, bored already. “I go to a gay bar every now and again with Danny - just to wingman for him, but it keeps hope alive for the boys. Got some real devoted fans who play for the other team.”

“Dude,” Scott chastises. 

“Can’t help it if I’m everyone’s type,” Jackson shrugs.

Derek rolls his eyes, but God knows playing up a bit of romantic tension wouldn’t be objectively worse than the other things he’s done for fame. Plenty of bands get glowing writeups and still go nowhere, even when those reviews are in Pitchfork. He knows how precarious their position is at this stage, and he knows that Kate is better than anyone at ginning up attention, keeping her finger on the pulse of the next big thing. He _knows_ what the stakes are, and if this ploy is her suggestion, it will most likely do the trick. They’ll be in the news more than a cycle, at least. 

Derek quirks an eyebrow at Stiles. If he’s grossed out by the suggestion, they won’t do it, and that will be the end of it. But if he’s willing, Derek isn't sure that he should be the one saying no just because he's not sure he can keep himself in check.

Stiles looks away, towards Scott, who looks back at him. Derek watches something complicated pass between them, subtle as a ripple on the water, past the line where he’s included in their friendship. In the end, Scott huffs and waves his acceptance, still not looking pleased. Stiles grins, satisfied, towards Kate.

“Sure,” he says brightly. “I’m game, let’s do this.”

“You’re gonna wow them,” Kate says, flipping the switch to her supportive mom-friend persona. “Once we get a bit of traction we can drop the innuendo, no problem.” She gives them a bright smile and ducks out of the green room to check with the interviewer.

“Hey, gimme a cigarette?” Derek asks. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says with clear distaste, holding one out. They didn’t have time to talk about the reasons behind his craving this time, Derek supposes. “You know, you smell like my dad when you smoke.”

“I – you know, never mind,” Derek says, shoving his hands in his pockets to avoid taking the cigarette. “Won’t have time to enjoy it before we’re live.” 

That’s not the reason though. What’s really stopping him is that however bad he thought he needed it, the fierce desire to _not_ smell like Stiles’ father is stronger.

* * *

“…and, not to be weird, but did you know that there’s some speculation from fans about whether two members of the band are dating _each other_?” the interviewer asks. Almost salivating, Derek thinks uncharitably. The interview has gone relatively well so far, he thinks. She started off focused on Derek’s history with Alpha, but he has those non-answers down pat, and afterwards they got to talk about their own music, about how they started performing together and what it’s like working with Boyd.

The four of them all shake their heads at her latest question, faking naivete. The interviewer isn’t dissuaded. “No? Okay, then if you had to guess which couple, who do you guys think?”

“Stiles and Derek,” Jackson supplies flatly, bored with any topic that isn’t him. The interviewer’s eyes light up.

“Wow, so, not a surprise. Stiles, what do you think about that? All the gossip you and Derek might be more than friends?”

Derek already knows the plan is for a coyly vague denial, but he still fidgets on the couch, hoping his white knuckled grip on the armrest isn’t caught on camera. Unlike Stiles, he’s familiar enough with lying – see his earlier comments about Alpha’s amicable separation - but he’s always hated it. He’s not sure if he hopes Stiles will be as good at it as he is, or not.

“Well,” Stiles says, and his nerves seem real as far as Derek can tell. Then he flutters his eyes at Derek, catching his lip softly between his teeth. That, Derek knows, is not so real. “I guess that as a performer you still want to try and keep some things private, especially when they’re important...” He trails off leadingly, gazing at the interviewer in a way that just begs for a follow up.

“Wait, so are you saying there’s something to the idea? You guys…?”

“Of course not,” Stiles says easily, like that’s not exactly what they’re trying to imply. “I think that people are just naturally picking up on the closeness between Derek and I.” He casts another moon-eyed look at Derek. “You know, I used to have a big poster of him from when he was in Alpha? You could say he was my first crush. In a way.” He smirks at the interviewer, who’s downright drooling now. “So there’s that, but honestly? The first time we met, we totally hit it off just person-to-person.”

Then Stiles tucks his whole body under Derek’s arm, as easily as if they do this all the time. Cuddling was not in the game plan; It’s all Derek can do to not scramble back to regain some personal space. He has no idea if he looks naturally affectionate or freakishly animatronic when he tentative places his hand on Stiles’ bicep. He wonders if Stiles can hear his heartbeat, too, or if it’s only hammering at his own eardrums.

“People are always going to come up with crazy theories, it’s fine,” Stiles offers, “Derek and I know what we are to each other, and it really doesn’t matter what our fans make of it.”

* * *

Kate’s instincts prove well founded: the story takes on a life of its own with startling rapidity. Even though Derek’s always sure that the next article is going to be an exposé about how the two of them are a couple of fakers, it never is. In fact, trying to find proof of the “obvious” romance becomes something of an armchair sport, and every fan seems to have an entry: The time Stiles snuck out of Derek’s place at 9am (never mind that it was only a practice session that ran long and he slept on the couch), the time he was seen buying the cigarettes that only Derek smokes (never mind that it was only because of their little tapering off strategy). It seems they’re almost _too_ good at pretending to be in tragically closeted love.

Or, Stiles is. Derek thought he was the one with lying down pat, but he’s nothing compared to Stiles. It’s sort of shocking how naturally he remembers to squeeze Derek’s hand every now and again when they’re out, or card his hand through Derek’s hair when he sits down. He even starts give him quick pecks on the cheek when they pass each other backstage setting up for a show, though only ever when exactly one roadie is looking, and never in front of a camera. 

On the plus side, Stiles’ casual attention kills Derek’s smoking habit for good. Like a nail-biter with bitter polish, all Derek has to do when he wants a hit is think of Stiles’ disgusted expression when he smells smoke on him and the urge is gone. Within weeks he’s down to one every few days, and then before he knows it he’s officially an ex addict. Stiles makes a small shrine of his half-smoked last pack, and Derek pretends he isn’t stupidly pleased to see the goofy little thing every day. 

He wonders what the fans would think of the in joke if they knew. Blogs have popped up like mushrooms, Jackson tells him sourly, and he makes the mistake of looking one night. It’s surreal for Derek to see his own face looking at Stiles in so many angles and filters, with love song lyrics pasted on top in case the ‘shopping was too subtle. He finds himself scrolling shame-faced through the blogs late at night, hunched over the glowing screen, lapping up their essays on all the ways Stiles is showing his devotion to Derek – and the ways Derek, more taciturn they admit, shows his love for Stiles. It’s like going through the funhouse mirror, watching strangers guess more of the truth than Derek’s acknowledged for himself.

Kate is in heaven. She asks them to start playing it up on stage, so they can sell more tickets to fans who crave an in-person moment seeing their favorite couple make doe eyes at each other, exchange little jokes and private touches. They could add more love song covers to their repertoire for the encores, she suggests, because why not? And pick ones with right pronouns, too. Stiles agrees with a smile, winks at Derek; Derek just hopes he’s going to survive this tour.

* * *

A couple months later they’re back in New York to start recording the full album. Derek did somehow make it through all the fake-relationship stuff, but it it’s nice to get back to the routine of practice. Not to mention, it’s good for all of them to have some space after so much enforced closeness. Especially him and Stiles.

Unfortunately, not everything survived the tour, as Derek had always halfway suspected. The lack of free time, on top of the distance, had been too much for Allison. She had suggested that she and Scott take a step back to reassess. Scott had recounted the story to them after a show, carefully looking just to Kate's left, but she'd hadn't had more than a shrug for him. He and Allison are nominally back together now, but all of Scott’s time outside of practice is devoted to shoring up the relationship while he has the opportunity.

While Scott’s re-wooing Allison, Jackson’s fucked off to whatever he usually does in his hometown, thank God. He and Derek are just ignoring each other, relieved to not be at each other’s throats like they’d started to be towards the end of the tour. 

Stiles, on the other hand...

They still have their lessons alone in Derek’s loft, but now Derek has to work at ignoring how the air feels charged when Stiles is picking out the chords play those old yearning songs his mother loved. Bonnie Raitt, 10,000 Maniacs… What would their fans make of the soft way Stiles smiles at him when he’s singing those lyrics, the way he doesn’t pull away when Derek sits close to him and nudges his fingers, letting his touch linger? 

It’s pointless to think about that. They’re just friends. It would be playing with fire to try for anything more intimate while they’re still bandmates, even if Stiles actually wanted more with Derek. Which he doesn’t. 

Sure, Stiles calls Derek “boo” even when they don’t need to keep up the charade. Sure, he trails casual fingers across the small of Derek's back when he passes by. It doesn’t mean anything. He does all of it so easily, without a hint that it might give him pause, _because_ it’s only acting to him: a game to play, another performance to throw himself into. Where as Derek… he blushes and leans into Stiles’ careless touches without even meaning to, he stutters with pet names because for him it’s not any kind of lie. Even though he knows exactly what they’re doing, the play acting is starting to unbury feelings that have been there all along. The “relationship” has become an exercise in gentle torture, because Derek knows that however natural and easy Stiles is in his affection, it’s just more of that stage magic - nothing more meaningful than when Stiles points out a girl in the crowd at a show.

“This whole thing with the rumors is getting out of hand,” he huffs, prodding Stiles away from him between sets. “Can we just drop it already? I’m sick of it being the main thing people know about us.”

“Aww, don’t be a spoilsport,” Kate pouts. “At least people know about you, right? It’s working just how we wanted.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Stiles agrees, so quickly it sounds like he’s eager. Well, maybe he is, Derek thinks with a pang. Why would it bother him to pretend? Just another excuse to ham it up.

“I thought we were going to stop doing this once we got buzz,” he complains, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Kate chides. “I know you can handle this.” For a second Derek's blood runs cold. Was that an insinuation of what he thinks, or is he being paranoid? “You two should go out with Jackson sometime,” she continues. “Get seen, keep us in the news. Okay?”

Paranoid, of course. Derek huffs angrily through his nose. “Fine.”

Jackson heaves a sigh, too, no happier with the situation. “I’m going to Clive’s tonight, so I guess you’re coming too. It’s actually pretty upscale, and I’d rather not be dragged down to your level. Change into something nice, alright?”

* * *

“Clive’s isn’t a gay bar or anything, but it’s totally pap central - that’s why Jackson goes - so we’re gonna get a few pictures for sure. Do I look photo ready?” Stiles says, all coltish excitement. He looks more than ready, he looks great. Derek harrumphs noncommittally. It had seemed like a solid plan to meet at loft to get ready, then take a cab together and get seen as they climbed out together. Maybe it hadn't been, on second thought. Stiles says, “Hey, how about we switch shirts before heading over?”

“What?” Derek asks dumbly.

“So it’ll look like we’ve been fucking,” Stiles says matter-of-factly, with a cocky grin. “Fans notice what we wear, they love it when they spot shit like this. Yeah?” Derek looks at Stiles’ shirt. It’s an old Death Cab one, and it fits him just snugly enough. 

While Derek’s still eying the graphic splashed across the chest, Stiles shucks the t-shirt over his head, tossing the wadded up fabric to Derek. He almost drops it.

“Gimme yours,” Stiles says, hand extended totally unselfconsciously. Like it’s nothing that he’s half naked, nipples peaking in the cool air. Derek struggles out of his Henley, considerably more conscious of being watched. He looks intently at his sparsely stacked bookshelves while Stiles squirms into it.

Stiles’ tee is much too tight around Derek’s chest. Derek’s shirt is too long for Stiles’ arms. Stiles waggles the tips of his fingers over the hem, makes some joke that Derek acknowledges with a grunt but barely hears, and they head down the stairs to hail a cab. If he takes a deep breath, Derek can smell unfamiliar detergent wafting off the shirt, and a hint of something else that must be purely Stiles. 

Later, in the shower, Derek tries to recreate in his mind’s eye the constellations of moles on creamy planes of skin when Stiles had been shirtless. It won’t hurt anything if he just… thinks about a different scenario for that evening: Stiles coming to him as he takes his shirt off, their chests bumping together, skin on skin. Stiles’ mouth kissing his mouth, his neck, lower, those long fingers gripping his hips…

Shame builds slowly in his belly, overtaking his arousal. _He knew what he was doing,_ Derek thinks desperately. _Taking his shirt off, he wanted me to notice, he was_ asking _for…_

He stops touching himself, forces his hands flat on the cool tiles instead. Stiles wasn’t asking for anything, he was playing a role. He was trusting Derek to be a decent friend and _not_ notice. Derek shoves the water all the way over to cold. He leaves the shower shivering, guilty and achingly unsatisfied.

* * *

“Guys, you can start kissing my feet now,” Kate crows, sauntering into the studio. The song they’d been practicing jangles into silence, to Derek’s annoyance. “I’ve just locked you in as the opening band for Kitsune’s US tour. Six months, forty-four cities, our merch on the tables – this is _it_ , kids.”

“Six _months_?” Derek asks. 

“ _Kitsune_?” Scott says at the same time, with a big excited smile that hasn’t seen the light of day since Allison finally put a nail in what was left of their relationship. Kate had privately admitted to Derek that she’d been the one who nudged Allison to her decision. Scott was great and all, she’d said airily, but she wanted something better for her favorite niece than a flaky long distance romance. Derek tries to forget that conversation every time Scott comes to practice red-eyed and sullen. "She's like, the number one new Kpop idol. Holy shit!"

“You keep up with teen idols?” Derek asks, looking over at him askance. 

“Totally!” Scott agrees, not catching the judgement. “She’s been a superstar in South Korea and Japan for a while, but her big single is just hitting west coast radio now. I think it’s up to top ten on this week’s chart? I follow her on Spotify.” He adds by way of explanation at Derek’s dumbfounded look. “She’s great! I think she’ll be huge. Like, Taylor Swift huge.”

“KPop isn’t really our style,” Derek says, hesitating. 

Kate snorts. “Babe, please. ’Adored by teen girls’ is your style, don’t go cold on me now. And your whole encore thing? This is our _big break_.”

Derek almost argues, but then he catches Stiles’ face – as open and excited as he’d been when he and Scott first signed on. Things have been going so well lately that Kate’s okayed him to work directly with Boyd and Erica, and Derek knows he’s been contributing lyrics for some of the songs. Stiles is blossoming, he’s the focal point of all the articles about the band - even ones that aren’t about their stupid fake relationship. So what if it feels like selling out? He deserves this. They all do. 

“Sure,” Derek agrees. Artistic integrity has never been their motivating factor. So what if they’re opening for a teen idol, so what if it’s six months on the road internationally? An arena tour is an arena tour. Besides, it can’t be worse than what they’re already doing to claw their way ahead with this goddamn fake romance.

* * *

Backstage with Kitsune is different from anything they’ve done before – it’s like a circus. There are tens of makeup artists, carts of costumes for quick-changes, crowds backup dancers, wires the size of Derek’s wrist curling underfoot. Scott turns around in a shuffling circle, taking it in with his mouth literally hanging open. They aren’t playing today, but Kate had said they ought to start getting familiar with the set up.

“Oh my God,” a high voice squeaks. “Are you guys Wolf Pack? Wow, oh wow, this is so great.”

The voice belongs to a slight Asian woman, who is barreling at them from sage left. “Hi, I’m Kira, hello. I love your music.” She turns her eyes to Scott. “Your drum solos? Epic.”

Stiles catches Derek’s eye and pulls a quick, amused face – _how’d this girl get backstage?_ Derek bites back a snort of laughter and shrugs good-naturedly. Scott blushes, shifting his feet. “Man, thanks! I love meeting our fans. Do you want me to… sign something for you?”

“Yes!” she says, digging into her bag for a program and thrusting it at him. “I’m so stoked that you guys are touring with me.”

Scott’s hand drags to a stop over the page, leaving a long sharpied trail at the end of his name. “Kira… Yukimura?”

“Oh, yeah. Kitsune.” She winces. “Am I not what you expected? People tell me I’m short.”

“Oh, no!” Scott says, “I mean, yes! Or, you just seem like...a... normal person?”

She laughs. “Yeah? So do you guys! Guess we’re all human beings,” she says pointedly, giving him a wry look as she rolls her signed program back up and tucks it away.

Scott bobs his head with a rueful snort. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Just, I feel like we spend half our time these days trying to remember that we’re not the characters in the tabloids, you know?” 

“Oh, there’s your problem,” Kira says brightly, “You shouldn’t pay attention to those. I never _ever_ listen to what anybody says about me.” In the blink of an eye, she’s gone from bubbly to scary-serious. “Reviews, fan blogs, the newspaper, strangers shouting at me on the street, doesn’t matter. Tune it out, 100 percent. A good manager will curate all the noise, tell you anything you really need to be aware of. All that other gossip? It just distracts you from making music people want to hear, and the music’s all that matters in the end. Can’t put on a good show if you’re worried about what they’re gonna say about you in the morning, right? The persona’s gonna eat you if you let it.”

Scott shoots a quick look at Stiles, who looks blandly back and explicitly doesn’t pick up whatever Scott’s trying to put down. “Good call, definitely sounds like the better plan to stay sane.” 

Kira glows. “Thanks! So do you wanna, uh, come see the pyrotechnics set-up?” she offers shyly. 

“Woah, hell yeah!” Scott says, bouncing in anticipation. She leads him away, babbling about the one dry run where her costume caught fire, and his puppy eyes only get bigger. Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at Derek, who has to smile back. It’s good to see Scott happy, it really is, and suddenly Derek’s got the feeling this tour will be exactly what they need.

* * *

“Hey, Derek,” Scott says, popping his head into Derek’s hotel room after a cursory knock. Stiles is off working with Boyd, so Derek’s been half-heartedly practicing the newest cover. He knows he’s really just wasting time until they can order room service together.

“Scott,” he answers, a little surprised. Derek likes Scott, but even now that they’re on tour it’s rarely just the two of them hanging out. He and Stiles still find themselves alone more often than not, or with the band as a whole for practice and on the bus. Derek occasionally spends time with Scott and Stiles together when Jackson’s off doing whatever it is he does. But Scott rarely seeks him out when Stiles isn’t there, and it feels awkward to be alone somehow. Derek clears his throat. “What’s up?”

“Look, I just wanted to talk to you. About Stiles?” Scott winces, shuffles his feet.

Derek’s stomach lurches, but he swallows the untoward reaction away. There’s no way Scott knows how inappropriately he really feels towards their mutual friend. If anything, Derek’s been more snappish around Stiles lately. “Uh, sure. Come in.”

Scott does, and shuts the door behind him. “Right. So, you know that Stiles is a terrible actor, don’t you?”

Derek does a double take. “Stiles is a great actor,” he says slowly. “He’s the one who’s got half the world convinced we’re secretly married even though we actively deny even being gay; I just follow his lead.”

“No, that’s not what I…” Scott sighs, scratching the back of his neck absently. “He’s a great performer, sure, but he’s a shit liar. He draws on what he knows, or what he’s already feeling. He can totally exaggerate, he always makes it glossy and larger than life and… well, you know. But he can’t make something up whole cloth and just go with it. With him it has to come from somewhere. Feel me?”

Derek doesn’t want to understand, but he does, suddenly. Oh, yes, that makes sense. He’d tried to convince himself that Stiles’ ramped up attention even outside of public view was a sign that Stiles didn’t take any of it seriously, was just messing around. But of course it’s not that simple. Stiles has to create that flirty character inside himself, build up a big enough emotion to feed from, to draw a good performance out of.

By making him play the love-struck boyfriend, Derek and Kate are confusing Stiles’ actual emotions. Fuck, Derek thought he’d noticed Stiles looking at him differently, lately, with a considering air. Stiles is getting his head screwed, and he’s helping. And for what? The extra tabloid attention? For Derek's own sick satisfaction? He shuts his eyes against the realization. Damn if he can find a world shameful enough for what that makes him.

“Oh. Yeah, I... Okay. I get it,” Derek chokes out.

Scott winces. “Yeah. So, what are you going to do?”

“I can talk to Kate, we can tone things down. Or fuck, we can just stop. It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re going to end it? Just like that?” Scott asks, apparently surprised. Derek wishes his band mate had a better impression of his moral character – of course he’s going to put a stop to things if Stiles’ wellbeing is at stake. “Stiles might not be happy,” Scott murmurs.

“He doesn't need to worry, there’s not going to be any problems for the band. We’re opening for Kitsune, aren’t we? Kate’s over-ambitious, we don’t need to keep feeding those rumors to stay current. His career is going to take off, burying this shit is what’s best for everyone, now,” Derek replies briskly.

He’s not thinking about all the casual handholding they won’t do, or about Stiles ruffling his hair. He’s not already missing the excuse to touch. He’s not thinking about it so hard he barely notices Scott leaving.

* * *

Stiles puts up a fight when Derek says he’s done pretending to be in love. He sounds genuinely offended as he asks, “why not just keep going with what’s working?”

“How about because I’m fucking sick of the mind games with the gossip blogs, and I’m over all the bullshit PDA?” Derek snaps, antsy with self-loathing. “That’s reason enough, isn’t it?”

“Jesus, okay,” Stiles mutters, hunching over his crossed arms. He blinks a few times, fast. “I didn’t know it was such a problem.”

“It’s like Kira said,” Derek adds, guilt for Stiles’ reaction creeping in. “We shouldn’t be paying so much attention to the press.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t?” Kate says. Derek winces. He knew she wouldn’t be pleased about this either, and she’s always been bad at taking no for an answer. 

But for once Derek goes toe to toe with her for every argument, refuses to back down like he usually does when she claims authority via experience. “Fine,” she ultimately concedes. “You can tone it down, but you’ve got to give them something big first. A picture of you guys hugging a little too close or whatever, something they can go on talking about for ages and that will explain why you’re backing off in public.”

“I don’t want to,” Derek says, aware he sounds childish. But how can he admit that even breathing the same air as Stiles already feels like too much intimacy?

Kate’s eyes are steely. “Too bad, Sweetie-pie. Stiles does his part, but you’ve always put a damper on it. Most of the time you look like you’re sucking on a lemon when he gets snuggly. I know you’re not an actor but damn. At least pretend you like being around him for one night, is that too much to ask?”

“Sorry. No, it’s… I can do it.” Derek mutters. Has he looked that unhappy? He isn’t, being around Stiles has always been natural and easy. It’s just that the lies have turned it into a stressful balancing act where he has to check his every impulse to avoid giving himself away. 

Kate snorts, acknowledging his acquiescence. “Jackson, you’re going to one of those gay clubs tonight, and you’re taking these two. Ham it up a bit - especially you, Derek - and you’ve done your due diligence.”

“Fine,” Derek grits out.

“Yeah, that works,” Stiles says, a strangely determined edge to his voice. “I can work with that.”

* * *

Stiles’ outfit for the club is tighter than anything he wears normally - a thin white tee and dark jeans that may as well have been painted on. The bass at the club is so loud Derek can’t think straight. He tries to hold onto the facts: once they do this, they can stop pretending to be more than they are, they can reset boundaries. Things will be natural and easy between them again, just a friendship, nothing ruined or changed. Derek needs distance and so does Stiles, and the price for distance is losing restraint only for tonight. He can do that.

Derek orders two more vodka shots, and downs both in quick succession. The alcohol will help him relax enough to give the photogs in the corner a couple shots where he’s with Stiles and doesn’t look like he’s in physical pain, and they’ll be fine. Kate will be happy and then Stiles won’t have to keep pretending and risk getting more confused about what they are to each other. 

“Hey, come dance,” Stiles says - and Derek lets himself go along with it. All he has to do is stop holding back for once, safe under the guise that it’s all a show. That’s all, just give in for a few songs. The lies can start up again tomorrow. Tomorrow, Derek will go back to just being Stiles’ friend. He’s drunk enough to ignore the pain he knows he’s purchasing for later.

The thing is, once they're on the floor it gets _too_ easy. Maybe because he’s a bit drunk and maybe it’s because Stiles is pouring all that stage presence into dancing with Derek, coaxing him close and then closer. It feels good to be pressed up against each other, Derek thinks hazily. How easily they fall in sync. It would feel better to kiss, but he knows even drunk that kissing right in the open is going too far. 

The song changes, Derek gets elbowed in the ribs, and he snaps out of it. Shit, how long have they been like this, practically grinding? Enough of that performance must be caught on someone’s iphone, and that's all they needed to get Kate off their backs. He’s not sober enough to keep things from blurring more, feeling too real. He’ll do something stupid and ruin any chance they have of getting back on friendly footing. If Stiles is getting confused like Scott implied, well, Derek needs to keep his head on straight for both of them. 

“I gotta go sit down,” he murmurs into Stiles’ ear. He ducks out from under his arms, makes his way back past the bar and almost falls into their semi-private booth, huffing out a sigh as the room tilts. His tolerance isn’t what it was back in the Alpha days, that’s for fucking sure.

And then Stiles is there in the booth too, must have followed Derek right away. He sits on Derek’s lap, straddling his hips, curling his body to bring their faces together for a kiss. It’s open-mouthed and sloppy, Stiles’ tongue licking into Derek’s mouth like it’s the best thing he’s tasted.

Derek kisses back for a second, on instinct, and then jerks away. He feels blurry, happy and horrified all at once. “What are you doing?” he asks, truly bewildered. They’ve done enough. They get to stop now, save the friendship.

“Putting on a show,” Stiles says, a teasing note in his voice. His hips are teasing too, rocking back and forth in tiny thrusts, just enough movement that Derek can’t get his head any straighter, no matter how he tries.

“That’s enough, we’re not – there’s so many people here. Can we just go back to the hotel?” Derek pants. His fingers twitch where he’s trying to keep from touching, from pulling Stiles’ hips in snug to his own.

“Sure,” Stiles says into the crook of his neck, and Derek can feel his smile rather than see it.

* * *

Derek closes the door behind them with a sigh of relief. They’re finally in private, mission accomplished. All the acting and confusion and blurring boundaries are behind them. But then Stiles’ mouth crashes into his again, his arms wrapping around Derek’s neck and the firm warmth of his torso pressing flat against Derek’s chest and hips. 

“Stiles,” Derek gasps, when they break apart and Stiles moves his mouth down to the tender junction of Derek’s jaw and neck “What are you doing? We’re alone.”

“Exactly,” Stiles murmurs, palming Derek’s erection. “This isn’t for them. Come on, kiss me.”

Derek knows it’s a bad idea, he does, but the taste of Stiles’ mouth is so much more pressing than the increasingly blurry reasons why he’s not supposed to be doing this.

Stiles has his elbow hooked around Derek’s neck, deepening the kisses into something sloppier, all tongue and hot, wet need. Their bodies slot together against the hotel door, Stiles’ leg working between Derek’s like an inevitability.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Derek says. “It’s not just… Is this really what you want?”

“I want you, Derek, _God_ do I want this,” Stiles says, “Do you want to?”

Derek groans. “Fuck, Stiles, of course I do, I just... is this really…?”

“Yeah, it’s whatever you want. Please, I want this. I really want you, Derek, please.” He keeps up a running patter of consent as Derek undresses him, as they kiss and stumble to the bed. He promises that it’s everything he wants, even between his gasps and moans and whines as Derek moves over him, as his words go rambling, devolve to near-incoherent sentences that pare down just Derek’s name, repeated, as he comes.

* * *

Derek wakes up with a monster hangover and the lingering sense that he’s made a huge mistake. Which, of course, he has. It’s laying across from him, delicate moles scattered across its broad shoulders, tawny lashes casting shadows on the cheeks which puff softly with each breaths escaping its wet, pink mouth. Memories of everything they’d done last night filter into Derek’s mind, as unforgiving as the sunlight lancing into his eyes from the open window.

He can’t believe he let this happen. This is exactly the kind of thing Kate was talking about, the kind of drama that rips bands apart from the inside out. A one night stand? Seriously? How had it gone this far in one stupid, reckless night? He _cares_ about Stiles, the last thing he wanted was to plant the idea that Stiles will have to pay with intimacy to have a career in music. Derek never meant to twist Stiles’ love of performing into something this sordid. He almost chokes on the shame of it. Stiles deserves something so much better, purer than this. Than Derek.

Stiles stirs awake at that exact moment, and Derek freezes to watch the understanding roll into his eyes. One blink, two, and a big sloppy smile spreads across his face. “G’morning,” he slurs into Derek’s pillow.

“I… Stiles, I’m really sorry.”

“What?” Stiles says, voice still blurred with sleep as he scrubs a knuckle into his eye. “Don’t be _sorry_ , come here and…” he reaches for Derek’s waist, and Derek realizes they’re both still naked, and that his body is responding in a completely inappropriate way. He panics.

“Hey, we’re band mates, remember? You’re not some star-struck fan, so back off,” Derek snarls. “We weren’t supposed to end up here, it's just… it’s just this whole fake relationship act getting out of hand. This was a huge mistake; we both know that.”

Stiles freezes, and the hand that was outstretched towards Derek drops softly on the sheets.

“Look, this is my fault, I had too much last night,” Derek says, flailing for safe ground. “Kate’s little game got into both our heads, there’s no way we would have done this otherwise. We don’t really feel like this, we’re friends. So let’s just forget it ever happened, alright?”

Stiles has twisted around to sit up against the bed board, with two handfuls of Derek’s sheets balled up in his fists, holding the covers defensively at chest level. His face is red with shame, and when he nods it’s a stiff, jerky motion. If Derek could cut off a limb to take back the last 24 hours, he would.

Forgetting is the next best thing. “I’m going to go shower,” Derek says, wriggling into his boxers before he slips out from under the covers. “Take any clothes you need, and just… just go. We don’t even have to talk about it, it’s nothing but the act going a bit too far. No harm, no foul.”

Stiles nods again, and Derek heads for the shower with relief. When he comes back, Stiles has taken his suggestion.

* * *

There are two issues with their last big hurrah; one, they’d gotten caught kissing. The picture is grainy and their faces are obscured, but Kate has to do serious damage control to squash any article outing them from running in a reputable publication. It wasn’t actually Stiles and Derek, or it wasn’t a kiss, or if it was it’s just friends messing around - she’s trying _everything_ to ward off the actual confirmation that they might be gay. 

The second issue is that Jackson freaks out, because he’s already been the subject of too much gossip regarding his sexuality, and he’s terrified that being so closely associated with a couple assumed to be in the glass closet might make the rumors about him stick. He’s fine playing the angles, but actually being out isn’t in his game plan at all. Kate tells him to stuff it, he calls her a bitch, and next thing you know, he’s promised to quit the second the tour is done and he has his cut.

Jackson’s plan to quit is the easier to fix of the two problems. The other guitarist they’d auditioned so long ago, Isaac, is still unsigned, and Kate has him locked in before the news about Jackson even breaks. The kiss is much, much worse. Even with all of Kate’s spin it will never really go away. Derek’s stupid slip will always be part of Stiles’ story, now. At least, he thinks gratefully, she’s able to keep it at the level of plausible deniability.

The blogosphere is it’s own Wild West, of course. The fans don’t have the same pressure-points as journalists who can be sued or denied future interviews, and they feed off of the tantalizing almost-proof of illicit boy-band action. Only the story has changed from the star-crossed romance that was once the lingua franca. Now the conventional wisdom is that Stiles is gay and in love, and Derek is the bisexual bad boy who’s happy to use him for a lay but sleeps around on the side. The proof is every candid picture from the last few months where he looks stiff and uncomfortable despite Stiles’s easy, affectionate poses. 

Derek is horrified, but after Kate’s done laying into them for their royal fuck up, she takes this new angle in stride. According to her, it’s perfect that all the fans have taken sides after the supposed breakup; the drama has everyone talking about them twice as much. 

“Getting people to talk was always the point,” she says, “and now they’re talking. Bad boy jerking around the relatable cutie? Tale as old as time. Plays into your images even better, and that’s gotta be good for the band. Besides, it means you’re both available in their sick little heads.” She laughs. “Can’t say I love how you’ve got us here, but this works just as well.”

“Yep,” Stiles agrees woodenly, scrolling through his phone with a sour twist to his mouth. “Just as well.”

* * *

Derek knows he did the best he could that morning, after a mistake of that magnitude. Their night together never should have happened. If they started digging into why it did, he’d just have to watch Stiles realize that it was all because of Kate’s stupid games convincing him to want something - someone - that he never would have otherwise. Derek hadn't wanted to see that, and he still doesn't. Wose, Stiles might realize that Derek was hiding these stupid, greedy feelings the whole time they were play-acting, letting Stiles think that it was all safe. He knows that moving on as quickly as possible is obviously best for both of them, for the band as a whole. Now that they’re free to be themselves, Stiles can let go of whatever warped idea led him into Derek’s bed. It’s for the best.

It’s harder to share that assurance with Stiles. They don’t talk much between shows, and their lessons have fallen off entirely. It’s true that Stiles does have to spend more time with Boyd now, to work on their new songs. Derek knows that’s not what’s really behind the distance. Stiles is short with him, won’t meet his eyes when they do talk, makes cutting little jokes like he never used to. It’s whiplash. Derek can’t stand it.

“Stiles, wait,” Derek calls after one practice session. Stiles stops, with a slump of his shoulders that might be a sigh. “I was just thinking, it’s been a while since we had a lesson. If you wanted to...”

“Maybe some other time, I’m pretty tired,” Stiles says, finally turning around and fixing his gaze just above Derek’s forehead.

“Stiles, are we… okay?” Derek asks. He knows they’re not, but he can’t figure out how to talk about it without bringing up that night.

“Sure, we’re fine,” Stiles says coolly, “Why would we not be?” And he flicks a vicious half-second glance at Derek’s face before he’s gone.

* * *

When they get the song Stiles helped with, Derek finds that the bass lines are miserably hard. There are no breaks, but there are plenty of bizarre key changes and runs that add little to the overall sound but add plenty to the exhaustion of playing it. It feels like punishment. Derek does his best with it anyways, not wanting to complain and be called a whiner - or be proved right. The hours go by even more slowly than usual, with Kate’s snide commentary and Stiles’ sullenness and Derek is relieved when it’s done.

So there it is. After all his good intentions, all his protestations that he was doing what was best for the band, and it all adds up to the same thing. Stiles hates him. Of course Derek had to let his dick do the thinking and fuck this up like he fucks everything up. He wants to lock Stiles in the studio and work through this mess, review the facts until Stiles understands that Derek didn’t mean to trick him into bed, never wanted to use him as an easy lay. Only, it’s not fair to ask that. Stiles is already being pressured into too much – the encores, the punk look, the fake relationship in the first place. He doesn’t need to be forced into an apology.

Derek just wishes Stiles knew he didn’t have to do any of the stuff Kate pushes on him to be valuable. Then again, Stiles sure as hell didn’t need an older guy linking his career to sex, either, but too late there. God, what a disaster. Derek, of all people, knows how fucked up that is, and he didn’t want it for Stiles. 

He had been sixteen for about two months when Kate discovered him and Laura at the local pub, and when she told them she might _sign_ them – well, back then, signing on with a real manager had meant everything to them. It meant you might actually be able to make a living doing this crazy thing you loved. Laura had been over the moon.

But Kate had a lot of bands on the line, as she explained to him later, over drinks he shouldn’t have been able to order. He and Laura could be superstars, obviously they could, with a manager like Kate. But he needed to show her some commitment, some passion for the music. Differentiate himself from the rest of the pack. 

She never said if he fucked her she’d sign them. Even if that’s what had happened, it hadn’t been… explicit. Thinking back, Derek still can’t say if that was the exchange on the table all along, or if it had just happened that way. If it had been star-struck hormones or something darker. If he’d wanted her, or if he’d just wanted a chance to get himself and Laura on stage. What it meant about who he was, that he felt more and more confident that it was the latter. 

So he didn’t really put a name to it – not even in his own head. It had only happened a dozen times or so, in the end, furtive little sessions that petered off even before they started recording. The closest he’d come to acknowledging it was with an old girlfriend, Jennifer. They’d talked about how he got his start in the industry, and he’d called it “a bit of the casting couch,” and forced a laugh. She’d laughed too, then congratulated him on snagging the hot manager when he was so young. And Derek knows that he’d lead her into that, how he’d played it as a joke when it still felt like gravel in his throat to talk about. They’d broken up a few weeks later all the same. 

* * *

The thing is, nothing gets better in the Wolf Pack fandom as the tour continues. Stiles’s “broken heart” is apparently the equivalent of red meat to the fans, and all it takes to kick off another tidal wave of posts is a slow news day and an interview where they don’t meet each other’s eyes, or a picture of Stiles looking over-tired and under-fed. It’s even starting to bleed into the tabloids again. Of course the angsty encore covers Kate has added to the lineup are just another perfect angle for more speculation.

“Wow, Derek, having a good time on the rebound?” Stiles deadpans, holding up a copy of some trashy magazine that shows a skinny blonde wrapped around someone who might be him. 

Derek grabs the magazine to take a closer look at the picture. “This isn’t me,” he says, “I don’t even own a sweater like that one, and I’ve never _met_ that woman.”

There’s a smaller insert on the left side of Stiles. He’s framed so it seems like he’s looking at the outline of Derek’s back – Derek does recognize the intersection and his own distinctive jacket – and he looks wrecked. You can’t photoshop that; it’s the real result of what Derek did. He feels sick, slaps the shiny magazine back down on the table face down.

“You know I’m not looking for a relationship,” Derek says. Pleads? “I’m focused on the band.” 

Stiles shrugs. “It’s obviously not _my_ business.” 

He listens to Kate more, these days. Derek finds them backstage sometimes, Stiles bending his head to catch something Kate’s telling him after the show. He’s certainly selling the encore songs she picks, the ones about heartbreak and longing, so goddamn well that Derek’s starting to feel like he really is the bad guy after a contentious breakup. He only slipped up once, drunk, and Stiles was equally confused. Can’t they both be forgiven? Can’t this be put behind them, considering the friendship they used to have? 

He doesn’t have a way to ask. Now, apropos of nothing, Kate has decided that what would really cinch Stiles’ whole look would be pierced ears. She has a couple of silver gauges picked out and everything. 

“Sure,” Stiles says blankly, with an expression of mild distaste. 

Derek knows from Scott’s expression that it isn’t just in his head; the cool response is as out of character for him as it seems. “Stiles, you almost passed out when I got my tattoo,” Scott argues. “Are you really going to notch up to a 14 gauge?”

Stiles shrugs. “Kate thinks it’s a good idea.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, unable to hold his tongue any more, “If you don’t want to do this- “

Stiles turns on him suddenly, face twisted with more anger than Derek has ever seen there. “Then, what? I don’t have to? Fuck, I don’t _want_ to miss my dad’s birthday, but I’m going to. I don’t _want_ to live out of a suitcase for another two months, but I’m going to. You want to be famous so bad, well, this is us being famous!” he shouts. “Nobody asked you to worry about what I want. I know we spent like six months pretending to _fuck_ over this, but you’re not my boyfriend, remember? C’mon, don’t tell me it’s fine to lie through our damn teeth about our lives and our sexualities and who we fucking love, but a goddamn piercing is going too far.”

Derek seizes up - it’s Laura all over again. No matter how hard he tries to pretend he’s different now, he’s just the same fame-whore as ever. He’d drive anyone to this, to loathing him. Family, friends, integrity, he’d sacrifice it all on the altar of making it big. How could he have even considered that Stiles truly wanted him that night, that he was worthy of something like that?

Derek doesn’t trust himself to say another word without the bile in his throat making him want to hurl, so he just turns on his heel and leaves. The next time he sees Stiles, for the Philadelphia show sound check, he has two small silver plugs in his ears that nobody talks about.

* * *

“New song,” Kate says. “You guys are going to be such a hot act after this tour wraps up. Last show is tomorrow, and I know you want a break, but this is exactly the wrong time for that. We should be thinking about our sophomore album. I think we should skip the cover thing, try this out for our encour. It’ll get people excited about where you guys are going next.“ She sends an especially knowing look towards Stiles, who seems way more excited for yet another polished hit from Boyd than Derek thinks he ought to be.

Derek takes the sheet and skims – minor chord, minor chord, monotonous progression, and the lyrics… “No. We’re not using this one.”

Kate’s plainly shocked. “What?” 

“It’s about suicide, you are not making him sing about suicide!” Derek waves the papers in Stiles’ direction, furious. He’s not sure why this is the hill he’s picked to die on, the straw on the camel’s back that has him finally standing up to her. It’s just that Scott said Stiles drew on what he knew to perform, proven pretty damn decisively by Stiles falling into bed with him, and Derek’s not making Stiles go to the place this song comes from. He just can’t do it.

But it’s Stiles who snaps back, not Kate. “Chill out, I want to sing it. And it isn’t about suicide.”

Derek taken aback, but recovers his indignation quickly. “Not about suicide?” He picks a line at random and reads it aloud. “‘The only thing I’m looking for’s the end/ can’t go back to when you were a friend,’ Hm? The title is _Over_. Sounds pretty fucking suicidal if you ask me. How are you so sure that it’s not?”

“Because I wrote it.” Uneven splotches of color stain Stiles’ cheeks; He’s just as angry as Derek had been a second ago.

Now, Derek can’t breathe. He knows Stiles always wanted to write, but he wanted to write true things, funny personal specific things, not this type of dull, one-note ballad. The only thing coming through the song Derek’s looking at now is pain, the dull grinding type that blinds you to any other register. It isn’t beautiful or nuanced or insightful, it’s just heavy.

“I quit,” Derek says, dropping the sheet music onto the floor. He’s a little surprised at himself; he didn’t quite see it coming. But now that the words are out, he’s sure he doesn’t want to take them back. He hates this, everything Wolf Pack has become. What Kate’s asking of them is too much; nothing is worth the price she’s insisted on extracting. He finally sees Laura’s side; she was right all along.

Kate laughs, until she realizes he isn’t bluffing. “Sweetie, you’re not thinking this through. We have a contract.”

Derek shrugs. “Sure. It says I can’t make music without you, not that I have to make music at all. I’m done.” He’s weirdly calm, the way he’s never been around her before. That, he assumes, is what makes her lose her own temper the way she never has around him. 

Her eyes go narrow and her voice trembles with ill-contained rage. “I’m sorry, you think you can just leave, the second I’m finally seeing a return on your sorry ass? Do you have any idea what it takes to get a band to this point? Do any of you dumb fucks have the first clue? I replaced Jackson, I could trade out any one of you just as easily. I’m the brains, you’re fucking _commodities_ , do you get that?”

“Sure,” Derek grits. “So replace me.” 

She runs a cool glance over the rest of the band. “Fine,” she says, the anger in her voice buried again under a vicious hum of barely-controlled tension. “You’re out, I’m out. Have fun without a manager, kiddies. Nobody in the industry’s gonna work with any of them, Der-bear,” she promises. “I swear to God, if you go through with this I am torching Wolf Pack and I am pulling every string I have my finger on to make sure there isn’t another option for you. Any of you. So go ahead and have your little temper tantrum. And then give me a call when you change your mind and you're ready to come crawling back begging me to fix it. “

She shuts the door behind her with a careful, soft click.

Derek realizes he’s trembling all over, his hard-won calm fracturing. Reluctantly, he turns to face Stiles, who is literally gaping at him, a look on his face like he’s been sucker-punched. 

“How could you do this to me?” Stiles demands, voice inching up towards panic. “To _everyone_. You can’t do this, you can’t break us up just over, over one fucking song! You’re ruining everything, how can you...!” 

“I…” Derek starts, “I just couldn’t handle her anymore, I didn’t think…” Derek looks to Scott, who won’t meet his gaze.

Stiles turns to their bandmates too. “Jackson, Scott, come on, Derek has to go apologize to her. She’ll come back we… We can still do this, we have to. Say something! Tell Derek he’s being insane right now!”

“Derek’s insane all the time,” Jackson snaps. “I’m out of this shit show anyways, so long as I get paid? I don’t give a flying fuck.”

Scott hesitates, visibly torn. “Stiles, I feel like… I don’t know, maybe he’s right. Nobody even wants to be here anymore, this isn’t what we started the band to be. This isn’t _you_. If Derek wants out, then maybe that’s as good a reason as any to let this go. Maybe this is supposed to be the end.” 

Stiles reels back, betrayal etched in the hard lines around his mouth. Then he spins on his heel and storms out of the room. The impression of the door slamming lasts for much longer than the sharp noise itself.

* * *

They still have to play the last performance, but Stiles doesn’t turn up for practice, and he’s so late to the curtain call Derek seriously considers the possibility he’s not going to show. He may as well have; their set is the definition of phoning it in and when they leave without an encore there is actual booing. It’s not how Derek wanted them to go out, but at least it’s over, now. 

Derek means to catch Stiles afterwards, but he stomps off stage before the last chord has even stopped echoing, while Derek is still shrugging off his guitar to set it down. By the time Derek is ready to run after him, Stiles has slipped away.

The bitterness is a palpable, sticky thing in his mouth. Of course it’s too late for them to go back to what they had, but he had thought that if he could just say the right thing… he’d thought maybe it wouldn’t just be over. 

But it is over, every last part of it. They have separate flights back, Derek’s straight to New York and Stiles’ to his hometown. They were planning to all meet back up in New York after a week and a half break, but clearly that’s not the plan anymore. None of them have any plan at all, actually. Derek just hopes it’s not too late for Stiles to realize he can have a better, more fulfilling life than this one.

He’s almost through packing up his hotel room when Scott drops by. They exchange awkward greetings and Scott picks at his cuticles for a long moment before blurting, “Are you going to stay in New York? If you need to, you can…”

“I have a condo in Chicago my uncle left me when he died, I’ll stay there for a while,” Derek interrupts. He can't quite stand this much kindness after what happened. Scott nods, a bit sadly and Derek hates again how his default tone seems to be ‘fuck off.’ He tries again, softer: “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out. What about you?”

“Kira asked me to come with her to Japan,” Scott says, ruffling his own hair like he can’t quite believe it. “The drummer they hired for this tour isn't up for another one, and… I’m really considering it. Even if Kate meant what she said, well, she can’t have too many connections overseas. Right?”

“Scott, that’s great!” Derek exclaims, glad to find at least one silver lining in all the mess. “You’ll be amazing. Is Stiles going home, or…?”

“Yeah,” Scott sighs. “I mean, I think so? Stiles… isn’t really talking to me right now.”

“He’ll come around,” Derek promises, like that will make it true. “Just, when you do talk to him, please tell him I’m sorry. I know everything blew up at the end there, but… Remind him that he can do way better than that band, the way it turned out. He’s got a gift.”

Scott opens his mouth, but whatever he’d been about to say turns into a weary half-smile. “Sure. If he talks to me again, I’ll tell him.”

* * *

Derek spends the first few weeks in Chicago completely numb. The calm before the storm. He finds himself wondering vaguely when it will really hit him, when he’ll actually feel how badly he’s fucked up; All his dreams up in flames, no friends, no family, no career. He knows it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker as soon as it sinks in, and he finds that he’s a little scared of what he’ll do when that happens, without anything anchoring him. 

But the storm never comes. Maybe it’s only because he was expecting the absolute worst, but the months after the break up are… manageable. 

He sleeps in every day, and eats whatever he wants for the first time since Kate told him he needed to lose that baby fat: Bacon and hash browns, burgers, ice cream sundaes with extra chocolate sauce. Pizza. Money isn’t a problem, or won’t be for a few months since the Kitsune tour was profitable as well as hellish, and he’s not paying rent.

He can go whole days without saying more than a “thank you” to a cashier at the grocery store, but the solitude isn’t soul-crushing. He has books from the library, and he rents movies. In fact, he almost enjoys the quiet, and he certainly doesn’t miss the crowds. Or performing, he realizes; his guitars are still stacked where he put them down with his luggage, untouched. Maybe playing music was never his true passion, as much as he’d become addicted to being on stage. Or it might be that Kate and the realities of being in a band on tour killed it. Either way, whatever aching emptiness he feels isn’t for making music.

Before he really has to financially, Derek picks up some gigs DJ'ing at clubs. He and Boyd still talk, and despite Kate’s threats she doesn’t have much pull in this particular scene. Or maybe in any scene, Boyd says with a knowing look. Somebody who’s that hard to work with doesn’t always get taken seriously when she says somebody else is a drama queen, Erica explains for him.

Derek hopes for the rest of the band that she’s right. For him, it doesn’t matter so much. DJ’ing is decent money for a few hours work, and while he knows he’s trading on his name, not his skills, it’s _fun_. The crowd moves like one pulsing organism to the music he’s playing, dancing hot and close to each other, and they don’t give a damn who he is, barely spare him a glance. Best of all, it’s too loud to think about anything but the rumble of the bass in his bones. He doesn't play the old Wolf Pack hits, no matter how many times they're requested. 

Outside of those nights, when he’s advertised as Derek Hale, former Wolf Pack member, people don’t really recognize him. After all, he’s scruffy now, heavier and older, wears glasses rather than contacts and is, occasionally, smiling. Or more likely, they were never really as famous as they pretended.

When the loneliness starts to feel heavier, as the season changes to fall, he breaks down and calls Laura. “You dumb nugget,” she says by way of greeting, but the teary smile in her voice says they’re going to be okay. Derek spends the next half hour apologizing anyways.

That Christmas is the first he’s spent with his family in exactly five years. It’s awkward and fragile, but nobody screams at him and he leaves with eight Tupperwares of leftovers and instructions to call that seem sincere enough that he does. The next time they have dinner as a family, for his parents’ 35th anniversary, is easier. Derek’s birthday, months after that, is downright pleasant. He has to excuse himself to the bathroom to cry after they sing to him.

On his mother’s advice, he gets certified as an accountant; he’d gotten his GED on the road with Alpha and numbers have always come pretty easy to him. It seems like an acceptable way to pay the bills, and the work feels honest. The figures he’s moving around actually mean something, the work he does is valuable to his clients – it’s the opposite of all the depthless gloss of fame chasing. He finds that he really enjoys helping people invest their 401ks, crazy as it seems. Against all odds, he finds himself, for the first time in his life, content. 

Almost content, anyways.

His turn as a semi-famous musician has just started to feel like another lifetime when he finds the article. It’s a tiny column on the 3rd page of the Tribune that by all rights he should have missed, but the name “Stiles Stilinski” catches his eye like a signal flare. It’s a glowing review of his new solo show. It’s not quite a rave, but the writer seems to _get_ it, why Stiles is a great performer even without the glitz. Derek searches online and finds out that Stiles is already on his sophomore album, and pretty well respected in certain circles. He’s hardly a superstar, but he has regular gigs, a professional website, reviews and features in a few industry publications. And he’s here, in Chicago. He’s playing a local coffee house theater, and he’s here.

It should be enough to know that Stiles is doing well, Derek shouldn’t need more than that. More than that just means opening old wounds.

But somehow the idea of staying at home when Stiles will be so close, of spending that night alone and not _seeing_ him itches under Derek’s skin. So he buys a ticket for himself and tries not to think too hard about the ‘why.’

* * *

“Well.” Stiles clears his throat. He’s older, and still beautiful. His hair’s in the same grown out style, but he’s dressed casually in a plaid shirt and jeans rather than the trendy get-ups from their old boyband days. The silver plugs are gone, and Derek is too far back to see how badly his ears are scarred. The show so far has been everything Wolf Pack wasn’t: personal, quirky and beautiful in turns. Perfectly Stiles. 

“If you’ve followed my previous career at all,” Stiles continues, “you probably know that I’ve got a bit of a thing about doing covers for my encore.” There’s an almost bitter edge to the joke, but it only gets a patchy titter through the audience. Most people don’t seem to know or care what he’s referencing, they just want him to get back to his music. A little smile plays around Stiles’ mouth – not as many fans of the old stuff and he had feared.

“For tonight… this final song I’ve got for you is the last time I’ll do a cover, I think. So! Make of that what you will, or if you have no idea what I’m talking about don’t worry about it - I promise you don’t need the story to enjoy this song. Anyways, here goes.”

It starts off simple – just a few [ melancholy runs of notes ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPOmqwXUA5g) that Stiles still gives his full attention to. They’re crisp and clean and it hits Derek suddenly, almost choking him, how fucking happy he is that Stiles has this, that he can finally sing the songs he wants, the way he wants to. The pride and thankfulness almost chase out the hollow feeling of knowing the show is nearly over and it’s the last time he’ll ever see Stiles in person.

Stiles strums a chord, then starts to sing, almost hesitantly, about daydream lies and imaginary friends. The words are evocative, but just as straightforward as the melody. It’s right for him, this song, perfect in its simplicity and range. He’s starting to fall into the rhythm, giving himself over to that raw, open performance that was always his greatest strength. The crowd is rapt.

“I'll give away this boy who tried to make you fall in love, uh-huh,” he sings, his mouth quirking into a self-deprecating smirk at the end of the line. 

“I'll give him to, to you. So keep him close, close to… you,” the line breaks off like he can’t go on, but a second later he comes back even stronger, almost angry, the chords building faster and louder: “So you won't forget about, oh, how he loved you, so long ago – once upon a time.” And the music ebbs back, mellowing along with his expression. When he starts to sing again, it’s much softer, the anger of the previous lines melted away. The melancholy melody comes back in counterpoint.

“Now he has grown up. And you can't take it back. Yeah, I know I won't change my mind. And I won't _ever_ go back to that.” His eyes flick up, staring so piercingly out over the crowd that Derek has a sudden, panicky premonition that they’ll somehow lock eyes despite the bad light and the hundred strangers between them.

“I will stay true, true to this belief that we've changed for the best, through this.” The chords are coming to a second crescendo, as Stiles bites out, “Separate the ones who know you, from the ones who couldn't bother to see you for all that you are.” 

As the music goes on, stilling the crowd, Derek has that old feeling that the song was written just for them, that Stiles is singing those words directly to him – that it’s about Kate, and their stupid fake relationship, and all of the people who wanted a profit off their music whatever the cost. Except that, of course it doesn’t just _feel_ like it fits perfectly. Stiles chose this one, not Kate, and it’s the last one for a reason. This is what he needs to say, after all this time. About the band, maybe. About Derek, almost as if he really...

The chords go a little sideways, ratcheting up again; “And deep down I always knew, all the times I thought that I loved you, it was just an easy answer, it was make believe,” he looks angry, almost disgusted, holding the last high note.

Derek’s heart pulses hard in his tight throat. He’d known too, hadn’t he? The night they spent together, it was only a twisted reflection of Kate’s ploy to get them a few more ticket sales. He’d known.

It should hurt to be reminded – it _does_ hurt. But to Derek’s surprise, it’s only a deep, bitter-sweet ache, not that raw glass-under-your-skin pain that had dogged him throughout their fake relationship. He’s _happy_ that Stiles understands it wasn’t real love. He’s better than everything Derek put him through. It was the heady fame and the rush of being on stage and the grinding pace of different cities every night, with their friendship the only constant, that’s all. It was the situation they’d found themselves in, and not about Derek in the slightest.

The last note fades, and after a half second of silence the melancholy runs take over from the chords again. When Stiles’ voice comes back in, it’s muted, pensive. “But I still believe… that this hea-art… will learn, to love.”

A hush settles over the crowd, because it’s a rare occurrence to hear a performer lay their soul bare like Stiles just has. He looks wrecked, but somehow also more at peace. Then the applause explodes through the small venue, and he startles like he’d forgotten he was in public. Derek claps the loudest; Stiles takes a quick, almost shy bow and leaves the stage.

It’s the last performance in Chicago; he’s going back to California the next afternoon to make a weekend show in L.A. the day after and they won’t see each other again. But, Derek thinks, maybe Stiles is right. Maybe someday his heart will learn to love.

* * *

Derek doesn’t have long to bask in that thought, though. A high voice to his left suddenly cuts, through the ambient noise. “Oh my God, is that – it’s totally _Derek_ _Hale_.” 

The almost-forgotten feeling of being exposed hits his stomach like ice. Instincts from so long ago kick in. Casually setting down his drink, Derek turns his face to the bar while people are still looking around for they’re not quite sure what. Then he’s walking through the crowd, purposeful but not too fast or pushy, to the nearest exit, the one towards the back. 

But then a hand grabs his wrist and drags him through a side door. Disoriented, he looks around at what turns out to be the tiny back room of the coffee house, in the middle of which stands Stiles, chest heaving. He looks more tired up close, but still painfully handsome. Being so near to him goes straight to Derek’s sternum, a hot, wide ache under the bone. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says quickly, pulling his wrist free. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene. Thanks.” 

“No, it’s… hi,” Stiles answers.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Derek says quietly, hands deep in his pockets. “I just wanted to see the show.” 

Stiles startles to life, clutching at Derek’s wrist again. “No, Derek, I’m glad to see you! I know we left things all fucked up, shit, I…” he seems to realize that they’re almost holding hands and drops Derek’s wrist, grabbing his own elbow instead and stepping back. “Anyways, everything’s different now. Isn’t it?” His eyes on Derek are pleading, wide open.

“Okay,” Derek says, head still caught on the fact that it’s Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. 

“So, we can catch up?” Stiles confirms, his gaze locked on Derek’s like he might disappear if it wasn’t.

“Sure,” Derek agrees, lightheaded. “But maybe somewhere else? I can’t think with all those people out there.”

“Sounds good. I’d invite you back to the hotel, but, uh,” Stiles finally looks away as he shrugs into a baggy black coat. “I dunno. It’s just weird and impersonal.”

“My place?” Derek isn’t sure if he should have suggested Stiles come home with him or if it’s too much to ask, but Stiles just nods like it’s agreed already. They sneak out the back and head to Derek’s car, the furtive jog feeling so like the purposeful ‘slip ups’ from when they dated. Fake dated. He doesn’t know what Stiles is thinking, and finds he can't read his expression like he used to. 

They’re quiet on the ride to Derek’s building, and in the elevator, and then Stiles is following him into the condo. Derek watches for his reaction – what he’ll think of this place versus the loft in New York. There are actual pieces of art on the walls, and books, plus two overstuffed leather armchairs Laura helped him pick out. Derek feels stripped bare as Stiles takes it all in. New York was just a place to sleep, but this is his _home_. He watches Stiles spot a picture of the four of them backstage, framed on the bookshelf. He wishes he’d kept it in the bedroom, out of sight.

“I enjoyed the show,” Derek says, and cringes down at his hands with how trite that sounds. He walks to the kitchen for something to do, pours both of them glasses of water. Stiles trails after. “I mean, this is what you should have done all along. I’m – is it weird to say I’m proud of you?” He offers Stiles a smile along with the drink, knows it probably looks more like a wince. 

Stiles fidgets with the glass, takes a small sip. “It’s not weird. You’re the reason I’m up there at all.” 

“What, you mean the lessons?” Derek shakes his head quickly. “That was just technical stuff, anyone could have taught you. You already had everything else. The skills you can’t learn.”

Stiles gives an amused huff. “Not the… See, that’s what I mean, though. You always had faith that I’d be good enough.”

“Of course you are,” Derek says, baffled. “You were always amazing.”

“I swear to God, Derek,” Stiles laughs thickly. “Sometimes it’s like…” he closes his eyes and swallows. “I get that you’re trying to be nice, but it’s honestly the opposite of nice when you say things like that to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. How has he messed up so badly already? He’d thought that Stiles would castigate him over destroying Wolf Pack, or about the night he took him to bed. This, he doesn’t get. “Do you want to go?”

“No, this is good,” Stiles says, shaking his arms out. “This is good, I should have done this a long time ago.” He takes a deep breath and looks at Derek with a stance like he’s ready to get hit. “I really apologize for the way I treated you back when we were in the band. Just, I was lonely, and you look like you do, and you were so fucking nice to me all the time, and it was just a lot. When Kate suggested faking something between us, I never meant for it to go like it did. I just thought that if I could show you how good we could be, you’d, I don’t know,” he breaks off. “You’d want me for real.”

“What?” Derek says 

“Not an excuse,” Stiles says quickly. “Just… explaining where my head was at. I honestly understand now that it was super fucked up to like, get all over you and pretend it was just for the band so you couldn’t say no. I hate that I was so fixated on seeing these little signs that you felt the same that I pushed you all the way into.... You know. What we did that night.” He’s biting the inside of his mouth, can’t meet Derek’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I was young and stupid and I just really thought… you wanted it too.”

“But… No, Stiles, it’s okay,” Derek says, waving a hand as if that’ll clear the air. “I don’t remember it like that, at all. You have nothing to apologize for.”

Stiles scowls at him. “Don’t minimize this. Derek, you were drunk and just trying to do what Kate asked and I took advantage of that. Even the morning after when you flipped out I just got _angry_. I was so sure you wanted it too, and so humiliated, but fuck, I still don’t actually know if you’re even into men at all, and…”

Derek interrupts, can’t hear another word of self recrimination. “Stop, don’t, you weren’t crazy. It was a weird time but you sure as shit didn’t force me into anything. I wanted you, too. Didn't I say so?“ Derek’s voice comes out barely a whisper. “I was so gone on you, Stitles.”

“Wait, what?" Stiles says, a wobble in his voice. “But... Then why did you kick me out, If I wasn’t reading it wrong? If you wanted to be with me after all? The moment we actually… you said it was a huge mistake.” 

Derek drags a hand across his face, slouching back against the kitchen counter. He had truly hoped he was the only one who had that entire conversation branded into his memory. “It was.”

“No,” Stiles snaps, building up from his abject apology into anger. “If it was real, we _had_ something, Derek, and we could have....”

“Could have what?” Derek demands, rising to Stiles’ temper. There’s plenty he’s sorry for, but he doesn’t buy Stiles’ version where the only mistake was not fucking around more. “What could we have done? This wasn’t happening in a vacuum. You may have been the lead singer, but I was the one who signed you, I was older, more experienced, I called the shots. I mean, that’s not how a balanced relationship works. You were getting exposure for the first time, you were on tour away from your family and friends, Kate had you pretending to be in love with me… you just said it, you were lonely and I was a friend. Your head was wrecked. Trust me when I say you would regret it more if we’d kept going.” 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles says, voice thick with anger and frustration. “As opposed to how well it went trying to pretend it hadn't happened? I’m not an idiot. I knew all the dynamics just as well as you did, only I trusted we could figure them out. You didn’t even give us a chance. Did I ever say anything but yes? I spend the whole fucking night telling you how much I wanted you. Why couldn’t you trust that?”

Derek almost wants to believe it - Stiles seems so _sure_ – but that’s not how things work. It wouldn’t have been right, no matter what Stiles had convinced himself of at the time.

“Okay,” Derek says. “Maybe you thought you wanted me, but you can’t just ignore what was happening in the band. You’re not an idiot, but nobody can possibly know what they really want when you’re touring together all the time, spending every waking minute thinking about the band. Stuff gets mixed up, what you’re doing for your career, what you’re doing for yourself… how can you tell if you really mean yes, or if it’s just playing along?”

“Playing along?” Stiles echoes helplessly, “I initiated it! I chased you for months!”

“So what? You can say yes and mean no, you can initiate something because you feel like you have to and never actually want it. The coercion doesn’t have to be explicit to be fucked up, believe me, and it sticks with you, it fucks you up for _years,_ it builds itself into your bones and you can’t get it out.”

Stiles stares; he caught the implication. “You’re not talking about me, anymore,” he says finally, not quite a question. Then a clipped, “so who are we talking about, here?”

Derek’s thoughts pinwheel – he didn’t mean to bring Kate up, can’t talk about that with Stiles. Nervously, he sets his water aside and palms his back pocket where his Lucky Strikes aren’t. He’s been clean for months after a brief relapse when he started working at the bank, but the need for one is suddenly pulsing sharply at the base of his throat again. 

“Is it you?” Stiles guesses. “Did someone take advantage of you when you were starting out?”

Derek rolls his eyes to avoid replying, blows the breath in his lungs out in a big sigh. Like it’s such a stupid thing it’s not even worth digging up. That’s how he should feel. It was a long time ago, just a stupid thing that in the end he’d _chosen_ to do. It shouldn’t even matter, so how can it still be so shameful? “No. I don’t know. Kate and I hooked up. Right before she signed us.” 

Another pause. Mouth pursed, jaw muscles clenched. Stiles is pissed, Derek realizes. “Jesus, Derek. You were barely _sixteen_.”

And, oh, he knows. Derek forgets that he’d been a fan, too, even before. He almost wants to give in and take Stiles’ sympathy, but in the end he just says, “Yeah, well,” and crosses his arms.

Stiles opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then shuts it with a weary shake of his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t seem like your business. We were never actually in a relationship, remember? Just, you know, make believe.” He doesn’t want it to sound bitter, but it does.

Stiles goes pale. “No, Derek, that's not what that line meant to me, I wasn't...”

“It’s fine,” Derek lies. “That’s what I was _saying_ – I know that’s how it was.”

Stiles sets his water down haphazardly and suddenly he’s in Derek’s space, bright eyes set in an intense expression. “No. Those lyrics - Derek, I thought it was make believe for _you_. You really think how I felt means nothing to me now? Hell, I _wish_ I could just grow up and get over you. I'd love some magic epiphany that makes this not hurt, puts a pretty bow on things and labels it “old news.” But it isn't, for me. I’d never go back to Wolf pack again, but you?” Stiles cuts off Derek’s burgeoning protest, eyes bright and chin held high though it looks like the effort’s costing him. “I’d do it in a heartbeat, I’d go right back to how we were. Maybe it’s stupid, but I would.”

Derek shakes his head. “You can’t…”

“No,” Stiles interrupts. “I understand what was going on, now. You did feel the same, I wasn’t crazy. You just thought I wasn’t in a position to consent. Right?” Stiles steps closer again. “You wanted me. And if you still want me, you understand the whole power dynamic bullshit is over now, right? I’m not sixteen, you are not her, you don’t get to pretend that not letting yourself take a chance on me is some fucked up form of chivalry where you get to be the voice of reason and save me from myself, okay? Please tell me you understand I have actual feelings of my own that I can act on.” Stiles voice ratchets up an octave while he speaks, pitchy with emotion. 

“I’m not trying to be _chivalrous,”_ Derek says. “Look, Kate didn’t drag me back to her room, she didn’t pin me down, I _wanted_ to do that with her. So I could be famous. That’s all I cared about, I’ve spent my entire adult life being selfish and short sighted and destroying everything I touch chasing that high. Okay? My relationship with my parents, my relationship with Laura, my relationship with you. You know, even now, I have about three people I’d consider friends? Maybe you did want me back then, but that doesn’t make me into someone you should be with! Especially not now, with your career... I don’t even know how to be a _good person,_ Stiles, you deserve someone much, much better. Somebody who’d never have made you fake a relationship in the first place just to move a few albums.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, but there’s still steel in his expression. “Fine. Would you do that today? Ask me to do something I didn’t want to if it meant I’d sell out a show or two?”

“Of course not,” Derek says, appalled. “I don’t care about fame. Not any more.”

“See, you’re not that person,” Stiles says, giving Derek a small, layered smile. “What happened with Kate wasn’t your fault, and it doesn’t make you damaged goods. And we’re not in a band together, anymore. Shit, we don’t even live in the same city. Whatever power dynamic you thought was going on, it’s over. We’re just us.”

Derek grips the counter behind his hips so he doesn’t do anything stupid like reach for Stiles’ hand. He doesn’t want them to fall into bed just to scratch an old itch, all physical release and then over for good. He’s not sure he could survive it. “I don’t even know you, anymore. You don’t know me.” 

“I know you,” Stiles says softly, and insists over Derek’s snort, “I do! You’re the guy who saw potential in two scrubby kids from Beacon Hills. You took the time to give me lessons, you were so goddamn patient. You got yourself to quit smoking.” He’s edging closer as he talks, catching Derek’s downcast eyes and giving him that 1000 watt smile. “The way we click, how you laugh at my jokes, all that’s still there. Yeah? I know you.” There’s the ghost of a touch under his chin and Derek shivvers.

“You know me,” Stiles continues softly. “I’m the same kid you used to help with his chords, the one you listened to all those indie albums with. I’m the same.” And when Derek looks up at him, he is. It’s like all the time falls away and they’re young again, only this time Derek kisses Stiles how he used to want to: honestly, as himself, no pretenses or performance.

Stiles kisses back, and Derek is shuddery with want. He touches the tips of his trembling fingers to Stiles’ stomach, over his shirt, hesitant to hold on any more tightly. Stiles is cradling his face, gently keeping their mouths together as the kiss deepens. It’s still hard to believe that this is happening, that this is okay. He’d never even imagined something like this being possible for them. 

They break apart, just enough for breath. Stiles’ hands move to card through Derek’s hair and then hook behind his neck. “I want to do this with you,” Stiles says plainly. “I want to take you to bed and make it right this time. If I should go, just tell me now, because if I stay…”

“Stay,” Derek murmurs. He relents and grabs Stile’s hips, pulls him in so they’re both leaning back onto the counter. His arms fit just right around Stiles’ broad shoulders, bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces, exactly how Derek remembers it. He’d been sure the perfection was a trick of memory. 

Everything about this time strikes him as the mirror image, a dream replacing a nightmare. Rather than a stream of misunderstood words, they’re communicating with every glance and gesture. Rather than rushing into a blaze of passion, they’re slow and gentle with one another and every small touch seems that much more intense for being intentional. Stiles’ long fingers trailing down his calf seem to leave a line of tingling fire. Derek can barely remember how he’d gotten undressed the time before, too lost in shame and inebriation. This time, he’ll always know it was Stiles peeling off his socks, laughing, using the opportunity to press a kiss on Derek's knee.

“I’m so glad you came to see my show,” Stiles murmurs into Derek's bare shoulder, once they’re fully naked, a tangle of limbs entwined in Derek’s bed.

“Best decision I’ve made in a while,” Derek agrees in a low growl, rolling them over for a better angle. He wants every inch of Stiles’ sweaty skin pressed hard against his. They move against each other with growing purpose, perfectly in sync, falling into their climax one directly after the other.

In the shuddery afterglow Derek looks into Stiles eyes, searching for some unforeseen damage or sorrow he can’t help but fear he’s inflicted. He can’t find even a hint of that in the open expression on Stiles’ face, in his deep brown eyes or flushed pink lips. Memories of their first time have haunted him, dogged every thought of Stiles and rendered it painful. Now they’re buried under an overlay of this: understanding, forgiveness, honest affection. If nothing else comes of tonight, Derek will still be grateful for that.

After they're cleaned up, Stiles sits with his against Derek’s headboard, looking out at the brightening sky. It’s almost sunrise. Derek curls into him; this morning is so opposite of their one other time, he wants to savor it. To hold on to this man and this moment, keep it from slipping on to daylight and the rest of their lives apart. Stiles turns back and tousles Derek’s hair, smiling. He runs his hand down his cheek and through his beard, and then looks him straight in the eyes. “I love you,” he says.

“Stiles,” Derek balks. “But… You have to leave tomorrow. You live in California.”

“So?” Stiles says with a fragile smile, eyes bright. “That doesn’t really matter, does it? If you love me too...”

“I love you too,” Derek says quickly. No regrets this time around, he’s promised himself. “Of course I do, Stiles, but…”

Stiles’s voice is firm. “Derek, not too many people get a second chance like this. Let’s at least give it an honest go this time around.”

Derek breaks into a grin, despite himself, and no matter the risks he knows he can’t refuse that. Even if it’s honest heartbreak, he wants to feel it.

* * *

_Epilogue, five years later_

Derek stares at his monitor, where the video is queued up and waiting. Stiles’ face is large on the screen, frozen smiling at something off camera. He’s sitting on a cozy overstuffed couch, and there’s a guitar in his lap ready to be played. He looks _good_. Untroubled and happy. Derek takes a deep breath and reaches for the mouse, but when he taps his fingers against the button it's a hesitant, nervy gesture that’s not enough to click play and start the video. 

“You don't have to watch it,” his husband says from over his shoulder, hugging Derek's chest and pressing a kiss to his temple. 

Derek steels himself. “I do. It's fine.”

He hits play. 

Stiles’ recorded voice is bright with happiness. “Hey everyone!” he says. “Thanks for all the love, I am just so honored to be nominated. In fact, I wanted to make a little something for you guys to say thanks. I know I said I was done with covers, but maybe you guys didn't know that, and anyways…” He laughs nervously, glancing off screen again. “Well, anyways, here's a thing!”

He looks off camera again, softly counts himself in, and when he starts playing a second guitar joins him, the two melodies weaving together. It’s a [ simple love song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XvYKe0Ayp1c), wistful in parts, warm and stronger for the hint of heartache. “And I never thought with you and I this would be possible,” Stiles sings, his voice clear and beautiful. The plucked notes compliment the sung melody perfectly.

Stiles’s posture is one of easy confidence, the kind that only comes of being at peace with yourself. “I need you by my side with your delicate heart, so please don't leave,” he sings, glancing down as the chord shifts. It’s a culmination of his potential, this song, but not an end. He smiles as he finishes, pleased, with a final soft, “just let it rain.” Derek smiles back at the screen, eyes not quite dry. It's a good cover.

In the video, the moment of silent appreciation passes and Stiles grins. “So, thanks for listening, everyone. And a big thanks to my husband and backup bassist on this! We actually used to be in a band together.” His hand grows huge as he reaches in to turn the camera. “Derek, say hi!”

Derek winces as his on-screen self waves awkwardly for the camera. Stiles scoots into the frame too, reaching to turn off the recording as he kisses the side of Derek's face so that's the last frame. 

Derek groans. “I knew it, I look like an idiot. Why'd you make me shave?”

“So you're recognizable,” Stiles insists, rubbing his palms down Derek's already stubbled cheeks. 

“It's too much.”

“It is exactly just enough,” Stiles argues, nuzzling his ear. “I want to win this thing, and I need votes.”

“But you don't think… it isn't weird doing this? Using us?” 

“No,” Stiles says. His voice is light and he’s smiling, but his eyes are serious. “It's real and it's ours to use. I want people to know who we are to each other. I'm ok with being private, but I don't want to hide. The wedding was in _June_. It's starting to feel like hiding.” 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. Private has been relatively easy for them. Stiles’ stuff isn’t really paparazzi style, these days. But now that he's hitting it big, the prying eyes will follow. Derek knows they want the announcement to be on their terms. Just…”You were nominated for a Grammy, though. Are we really doing all this,” he waved at the screen, “over a teen choice award?”

Stiles smirks. “Well, if I've sold out and let the CW use my stuff for that show, I at least want some recognition out of it. I love all my fans, you know.” 

Derek can’t help but raise his eyebrows. “Even fans who only know the soundtrack single for a tween show about werewolves, of all things?” Stiles sticks out his tongue, and Derek holds up his hands in surrender, feeling his mouth curve into an indulgent smile. Stiles’ phone buzzes. “Is that Scott? When are he and Kira planning to get here?”

Stiles’ nose scrunches as he does the mental math. “Maybe seven? He just texted me that they were on the tarmac.” 

Derek nods and pulls four plates from the cabinet. He’s already got the celebratory meal prepped and ready to go in the crock pot, but no harm in setting the table. He wants everything to be perfect for Scott and Kira’s first real meal after touring. 

“No, use the _good_ plates,” Stiles protests.

“These plates are good,” Derek protests, waving one at Stiles to illustrate. “I like them.”

“But what about the set your mom gave us? If we can’t use the fine china when my best friend is visiting from Japan, when can we use it?”

“Well, if it was going to be such a fancy affair we should be having it in our actual dining room. A pied-a-tere is casual by nature, ergo we should use these plates. Also, the fine china is hideous.”

“ _Pied-a-terre_ ,” Stiles echoes under his breath with a loaded smirk and exaggerated accent.

“I’m not trying to be snobby,” Derek says primly. “That’s what it’s _called_ when you have a smaller place in the city to stay.”

“I just call it our San Francisco apartment,” Stiles points out. “That seems to get the point across.”

“But that implies that we don’t have a real house, which we do. If there’s a correct term for something, you should use it.”

Stiles smiles fondly. “Does it ever occur to you after all your hand wringing about power dynamics, you’ve basically become my sugar daddy? Buying me pieds-a-terres all over the country.”

“Just the one,” Derek interrupts. “The condo in Chicago doesn’t count. Peter left it to me before we even met.”

“And a fancy house out in the suburbs.” Stiles smiles at him, unperturbed.

Derek rolls his eyes. “It’s different when you’re married. Investment banking pays well, indie music slightly less so. If anything,” he concludes, placing a pious hand over his heart, “I think of myself as your patron.”

“Well then, Mr. Medici, c’mere and let’s decide about these plates like men,” Stiles says, pushing himself up onto the counter and spreading his knees in invitation.

Derek takes him up on the offer, wrapping his hands around his husband’s waist, nuzzling little kisses onto his neck. Stiles drapes his arms over Derek’s shoulders with a sigh, and kisses him back.

Derek smiles into the kiss. He never thought they'd have this, but he also can't imagine his world without Stiles in it. They're too much a part of each other, balancing and pushing in turns as they grow together into the best versions of who they could be. 

“So where are you sending the video? The Times, or something more local?”

“Hmmm no,” Stiles answers, smirking mischievously. “This is for the fans, remember?”

Derek stares back. “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, no way.” 

Stiles’ grin is nearly manic. “Do you remember that girl Christine’s blog, WolfPackAttack? The big one that was basically a wiki of every time we looked at, touched, or mentioned one another?” 

“No way!” Derek protests, laughing helplessly. “There is no way that's still running.” 

“Oh, but it is!” Stiles cackles. “And I have a feeling they're gonna get about a million hits this weekend.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, leaving kudos (?) and commenting (???) because all of that is basically what I live on. If you really loved the story, consider telling your friends about it or checking me out on [Tumblr](http://troubleiwant.tumblr.com/) for more fics, ficlets, fanart, flailing and general Sterek-y shenanigans.
> 
> If folks are still into this pairing and excited, maybe I'll pull something else out of ye olde draft pile. Stay safe and healthy everyone!


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